Songs of Ice and Snow
by thefireplanet
Summary: There are burdens to being queen that have nothing to do with a curse. There are duties expected of the princess that have nothing to do with being a sister. And the course of true love never did run smooth.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n: **i have seen the movie and it is wonderful and i want more! so i present my own little romp in their world, taking place **One Week** after the events of the movie. slight spoilers, then, obviously. that being said, i know a lot of people _haven't_ seen the movie, and all i ask if that if you still are interested in reading, even if it means waiting until after you've seen the film, let me know!

if you do want more, though, please review :)

* * *

"I'm just taking it out for a little test run."

"Well, why can't _I _take it out, too? There's no reason I can't!"

"Do you remember what happened the last time you rode in my sled?"

"I—I—we were being _chased_ by _wolves_, I didn't run it into a tree! Besides, it's not like we can't _replace_ it or anything."

"You don't—you don't need to _replace_ it every time I break it—"

"What are you saying? Are you going to break it a lot or something?"

"No, I'm just saying that I can take care of myself—"

"I never said you couldn't, how did you even—"

"_Anna_."

"Fine. I didn't need to go _anyway_."

"Well, don't just—walk—ok, there she goes. What are you looking at? Give it a rest, Sven." Kristoff scowls at his feet, scuffing his boots along the cobblestones of the harbor. A week ago, the same harbor had been encased in ice; now the water glittered beneath a waning summer sun. He looks to the mountains, the tall peaks impervious to the warm glare, and the beautiful snow crowning their heads. He itches to be out there. Sven nips his sleeve. "It's not that I _don't_ want to be with her," he snaps, swatting his friend away. "It's that I _do._"

With that he heads to the stables, to gather tack, and rope. He needed to clear his head. Fastest way to a clear head was twelve thousand feet up.

* * *

Elsa watches her sister attacking her meal and says, very coolly, "Is something wrong?"

"_No_," Anna snaps, between tearing off chunks of bread with her teeth and slurping the pea soup situated by her left elbow. "Nothing's wrong, why would anything be wrong, everything's _perfect_."

Elsa sets down her spoon. She enjoys the feeling of the cool metal against the bare pads of her fingers. There is a manservant by the door to the kitchens—Elsa, wincing, can't remember his name, as he had been part of the influx hired after opening the gates to the palace—and he is watching Anna with a mixture of horror and fascination. "Anna," she sighs.

"Don't _Anna_ me," Anna mumbles, but, as per usual, her anger is spent, burnt quick, like a lit match. She sets down her bread, reaches across the table—"That's not—" Elsa begins—and takes a long, long sip of Elsa's mahogany colored wine.

Anna spits it into her pea soup.

"—watered down," Elsa finishes, lamely and lately.

Anna proceeds to scrub the bread over her tongue; Elsa takes her glass from her sister and almost smiles. Her lips twitch up in the corners. But it's a strange thing, smiling, and she doesn't quite manage it—not fully, at least; not yet. A week, and things were still strange, new—feelings. She was stumbling around in the dark like a newborn.

"How do you—_drink_ that stuff?"

Elsa says, dryly, "I swallow."

Anna shoots her a withering look, then sags back in her chair. Her eyes flit down the table; it's a long table, and covered with a cherry red cloth, and at its head is a single empty chair, and one next to it, as well; and then, perhaps five feet away, there they are perched, two sisters; and then the empty space of the rest. Anna says, "I just—I'm sorry. I had a fight with Kristoff. Earlier today."

Elsa liked Kristoff infinitely better than she had liked—_him_. But that didn't mean that Anna hadn't rushed head first into things; there may not be a marriage at the end, but there had not been enough time, either. "I'm sure—"

"I mean, it wasn't really a fight. More like me getting angry, and I just don't know, I just wanted to spend some time with him, and it was like he was running away, which is ridiculous, because why on earth would he run away?" Anna stops, gulps in a deep breath. Elsa blinks blankly. "Sorry."

Elsa shakes her head. "No, Anna, don't be sorry; I want you to be able to share things with me," she finishes softly, like she's afraid to say it. "And I know things have been—hectic, this past week."

Perhaps hectic wasn't the proper word; down near impossible, would be a better description. Elsa had to send apologies to at least fifteen foreign dignitaries, arrange a kingdom-wide meeting in the square to address the issue of her curse, _and_ choose new palace servants—a task which she had set Anna to oversee.

"I'm afraid it isn't love," Anna says abruptly. "I don't—" her eyes flit back to the head of the table. The empty chairs. "I don't necessarily have the best judgment when it comes to these things." She laughs softly, a little self-deprecatingly.

"I wish I could help you," Elsa clenches her hand on the table; her skin is almost translucent against the cherry red backdrop, "but I'm afraid I don't much know, either."

"Well," Anna says, sniffing, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth in a very un-princesslike manner, "at least we have each other."

Elsa smiles, and somewhere inside, a little more of the ice cracks.

* * *

Anna faintly registers the door opening—that is, somewhere in her dream of trolls and wedding dresses, there is a creak. Then one of the trolls opens her rocky, moss-filled mouth and Olaf's voice says:

"Ah—_nna_, Ah—_nna_—"

"Olaf," Anna groans, waking up but refusing to open her eyes, "I thought we talked about this." There's a chilly breeze, and she knows Olaf's own personal storm cloud must be hovering somewhere over her left arm. She burrows deeper into the blankets.

"The sky is awake," Olaf says happily, "and so me too!"

Anna can't help but laugh at that, smiling into her pillow, the echo of a memory playing across the back of her eyes. She peeks one open. The French doors leading to her balcony reveal a sky tinged violet around the edges. "It isn't awake _yet_."

"But it's going to be! Get up, get up!"

"Al_right_, geez," Anna yawns, sitting up. Olaf is dancing on the covers, blowing snowflakes everywhere. "Let's go."

She hobbles out of bed, wincing as her feet hit the cold marble floor. She shivers, and the shiver hurts, somewhere inside; she'd been more sensitive to the cold, since what happened. She could bury herself in a hundred blankets and never feel warm—like a tiny sliver had stuck in her heart, and she could picture it, always there.

Is this what it had felt like, to be Elsa?

Anna opens the doors to her balcony and is greeted with the dying chill of a cool summer night. In the distance, over the peaks, she can see the first rays of sunlight. Olaf practically dances with joy next to her. "Have you ever seen anything so lovely?"

"Well, yesterday's was pretty lovely, too," Anna yawns, leaning against the stone railing, "and the day before that; and the day before that."

"Yeah," Olaf sighs dreamily. He can't quite reach the railing, except for the tip of his nose. The sun is just beginning to show itself. Anna laughs.

"Olaf, you're—Olaf!" She snaps straight suddenly. "Kristoff must be back!"

"Sven left?"

"Yeah—I've got to go, sorry, I just—"

"But the sun's not all the way up!"

"I know!" Anna cries, barreling into her room, pulling on two mismatched slippers and mixing corsets and skirts. "But I just need to apologize!"

* * *

Elsa opens her eyes, and the sun is the color of apricots, and she realizes she's slept too late. She sits up, and the lists of duties she must attend to grows in her mind—to start, that missive she received just yesterday from the Southern Isles, still unopened. She sighs.

Then her door slams open.

"Elsa!" Anna piles forward. She's wearing a pink snowcap, a yellow skirt, a light blue top, and two different colored slippers. Elsa blinks. "What are you—"

"He's not back yet," Anna says. She begins pacing at the foot of the bed. "It's been a whole night—practically an eternity, and he's not back yet, his sled's gone—"

"Who—_Kristoff_?"

"Yes! I thought he'd be back by now and do you know he's been insisting on sleeping in the barn with Sven? Well, he has, I told him he could sleep in the spare room, but anyway that's not—the point is he wasn't there. I mean, I don't know, do you think he ran off?" Anna pauses for a breath.

"…no?" Elsa wants to laugh, which is probably the wrong reaction to have. "I'm sure he's fine, Anna. The ice harvesters? They spend weeks alone in the mountains."

"Weeks? That's too long." Pause. Then: "So you don't think anything's happened to him?"

"No," the right side of Elsa's mouth rises. "Now go get changed. You look ridiculous."

Anna glances down at herself, and her eyes widen, like she finally realizes what she's wearing. "Oh, man, is that how I—oh. Ok, I'll go do that now. Good idea."

Elsa watches her go, picking at a thread on her blanket.

* * *

Anna watches the distant mountains like they'll tell her something. The North Peak looks small and insignificant from here. Above her the night sky is twinkling, a thousand stars lighting the sky, and she is freezing.

It's not particularly cold, and she _knows _this, but she can't stop from shivering, even with her arms drawn close together and her toes pressed next to each other. There's a fire blazing in her room behind her, but other than that the palace is quiet, the lights off.

It's not that—she wants to _smother_ him, or anything, but he'd left like that and she needed to apologize. She stares at her fingers, pressed against her sides, and Hans' face flits into her memory like a weed. She grimaces, sticking her tongue out. Mostly she felt shame, and embarrassment.

Mostly she was afraid it would happen again.

Mostly she was afraid she didn't know what love really was.

She sighs, and presses herself closer together, and then she hears, "Are you cold?"

She turns, halfway; Elsa is there, outlined in her doorway. She remembers a time when they had shared a bedroom. An entire childhood, wasted. She says, "No, I'm completely—"

Elsa waves her hand, and an icy breeze gathers the comforter on her bed in its frosted grip, drags it outside, and with a swirl deposits it neatly onto her head. Anna laughs. She can't see anything but interlocking diamonds. "You're getting better that!" she raises her voice to be heard through the fabric. "Do you think you could fly me over the wall?"

Elsa doesn't say anything. Sometimes—and that is, all of the time—Anna is convinced joking is not in her vocabulary; then, Anna is only partly joking. If she could fly over the wall right now she could find Kristoff. She hears footfalls, and then Elsa's arms are folding around her, tightening the blanket.

"Hi," Anna smiles. She shrugs back and wraps the blanket around her shoulders, so her head is visible. Elsa is standing there, looking a little concerned and lost in the moonlight. Anna reaches for her hand. "You're still up?"

"So are you," Elsa counters. "I had business to attend to. What's your excuse?"

"No one. I mean, nothing. No excuse. Just can't sleep."

"Kristoff is _fine_, Anna."

"I know! I'm just—admiring the stars!"

Elsa gives her a look. The kind of sister look that calls her lying. She smiles cheekily. Then Elsa does the thing Anna didn't want her to do and notices the goosepimples running along her arms as she adjusts the comforter. "Are you cold?" her sister frowns.

"A little. It's nothing. I think I might be getting sick." She hadn't told Elsa how she couldn't get warm anymore, not really. Her sister didn't need that weighing on top of everything else. She changes the subject. "So can I help with anything tomorrow?"

Elsa purses her lips. After a beat, however, she bites. "There are a few things, yes. I need to schedule the royal painter for our portraits and then answer a few letters. Perhaps you could check that the supplies are coming into the harbor alright?"

Anna nods, smiling. "Of course."

They stare at each other for a minute. Anna likes this. Likes having someone to talk to, even if they are just feeling each other out again, after all these years. Her smile widens, and she bends forward for a quick hug. Elsa's skin isn't like ice—it's a bit warmer than it used to be—but it's close, and it doesn't help Anna's own temperature. She says, "Goodnight."

Elsa smiles, a small, fragile thing. "Go to bed."

"Yes, ma'am!" Anna clacks her heels together, watching her sister go, and then she turns back to the vaulted castle walls of the courtyard, and the fjords beyond. It's peaceful. It's silent. She just wanted to say sorry, was all. She sighs, slapping her cheek into her hand. The blanket falls around her shoulders. The gates are still open, even at night, now; something Elsa had said about _making it stick_. Anna didn't care. They were open, and she could leave, if she wanted to, and—

Where would she go?

"Ugh, _Kristoff_," Anna sighs, watching the two guards propped on either side of the gate. They flicker in the light of the brazier. "Stupid, fat head, can't believe he—"

There's the sound of hooves. Faint, at first, and then barreling forward, past the two frightened men and into the courtyard. Anna shivers stock straight, because Sven is there, and he is very much Kristoff-less.

"I _knew it_!" she hisses, peeling backwards and throwing her blanket to the floor of her room. She slips into her boots (matching, this time) and her pink cape and throws on her hat for good measure and then she's gone, racing down the hall, not stopping, even as several of the Night Guard shout at her passing. She slides into the courtyard, winter-gear feeling just perfect in the cool of the night air, even when it shouldn't, even when she should feel stifled—and there's Sven, Sven—"Sven!" she shouts, trips, and only just manages to catch herself on his antlers. He looks worried. "Sven, where's—what's—"

Sven blows out his lips.

"I can't speak reindeer, Sven, only Kristoff can."

Sven repeats the motion, and then bits her sleeve. She hoists herself onto his back.

"Alright, bud, if something's wrong—you gotta take me to him." They bound past the guards by the gate. "Tell my sister I'm trying to find my stupid boyfriend!" she shouts back at them, but she can't tell if they've heard or not, because by then they're little pricks in the distant corners of her vision, and she and Sven are barreling to the North Peak.

* * *

"Kristoff?"

Anna wonders why she's whispering; there's no need to whisper. It's quiet as the grave, and the snow is old, and packed, but she can't help but remember the wolves. She whispers again, a little louder, "_Kristoff_?"

Sven brings her out of the pine trees, and into the bright moonlight, reflecting off the white ground, enough that she can easily make out the sled. It's fine, not a scratch. There's a torch, half-sputtering and mostly embers, lying on the ground next to it. Her heart is beating awfully fast. She dismounts Sven, ungracefully, landing hard on her back; the reindeer motions impatiently forward. "Alright, ok, I'm coming, let me just—" she gets to her feet. She doesn't want to see what happened. She'll do it quick, like ripping off a bandage. She runs forward.

Sven, with a sort of neigh, grabs her cloak with his teeth and snaps her back just before the edge of a jagged, narrow canyon she had not seen. She falls backwards once more, heart pounding.

"Thanks, Sven," she whispers. She crawls forward.

The gap between her side and the far side isn't big—it's really narrow, actually, and she could jump across it. There are markings on the other side, like someone had. The dark, black rock cuts into the earth, and she peers over the edge of the cliff; the narrow sides continue down for perhaps six feet, and then she can't see. It's black.

"Sven, where is he?"

The reindeer nudges the torch her way. She picks it up, blowing on the embers to get some light back into it. It flickers dully in her hand. She sticks it between the narrow gap in the earth and shouts, "KRISTOFF ARE YOU DOWN THERE?"

Heartbeat. Two. Then, a groan. "…Anna?"

"Kristoff!" she shouts, and she sags with relief. "Where are you? I'm coming to get you!"

"No, just go back, Anna, you can't do this by yourself—"

"It's fine—here, I found the rope." She loops it over her shoulder. "Where are you? What were you doing, anyway, how far does this—"

"Anna, there're no footholds, you've got to—"

She sticks the torch further down the gap, trying to see into the blackness, and she catches a flicker of light, a murmur of something violet, and she bends a little further. "I'm dropping the torch, is it above you?"

"No, but Anna, just—"

She lets go. The torch falls maybe twelve feet, and then lands, with a dying hiss, on something cold. It vaguely lights up the interior of whatever is beneath, and she can see Kristoff's prone form. "Why aren't you standing? Did you break something? Are you broken?"

"Anna, please, I don't want you to—"

"Here, I'll make a snow anchor!" She turns behind her, and Sven cocks his head, and she's grateful for something to do, something to keep her blood moving and her mind off things. She begins digging the snow away in a little curve, slipping a looped end of the rope over the mound she makes. "What were you doing down there, anyway? Doesn't matter. I _knew_ something was wrong. There."

She finishes, testing the rope, and then ties the other end around her waist. She stands, stretches briefly, and then teeters to the edge of the canyon in the earth. There's another stretch of rope lying in the sled, and she grabs it. "Alright, I'm going to lower myself as far as I can and give you the rope, and then—then Sven can pull us up or something. You know, whatever, we'll get to that part when we get to it."

"Anna, it's slippery," Kristoff warns. "Just get some of the guards—"

"No, are you kidding? We can do this. It'll be," she grunts, leaning forward, "a bonding experience," she leans forward a bit more, and then, with a noise like a pillow falling to the ground, the snow anchor slides away. Sven makes a grunting nose. Anna doesn't even have time to scream before she's falling. She knocks her head on the side of the narrow entrance before it widens and she's still falling, only underground now, and then—

"_Oof_," she lets out in a gasp, her air gone, vision sparking. She's lying on something lumpy.

"I think you broke my spleen," Kristoff manages at a gasp.

"Kristoff!" Then she realizes what just happened. The torch is dying, five feet away, embers flickering weakly, and the moonlight isn't enough. They're in a cavern, but that's all she can make out. Kristoff stirs beneath her; she feels his hands coming to rest on her upper arms.

"Well," Anna says, "this could be a little better."


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n:** thank you all for the lovely reviews/faves/alerts! i'm just happy that people are enjoying this :) but please! keep reviewing! this story should take some interesting twists soon, hopefully, crossing fingers.

anyway, in honor of _Frozen_ practically (aka one hour from midnight) being released nationwide, here's the next installment! please read and review! :)

* * *

The little candle flicks wanly, casting shadows on the walls. Outside the summer sky is the color of plums, and she would be able to make out the stars, if not for the moonlight streaming in the windows. Elsa pauses in front of one; there's the lake, and the woods, and beyond it all, the mountains, still bathed in snow. The hand not clutching the metal candlestick twitches involuntarily. She's had enough cold to last a lifetime, but being up there, she hadn't felt—

Confined.

Elsa steps away. She turns her back on the mountains, and the cold. She passes her bedroom door. It's shut, and tightly. She looks straight ahead, and can't help but think that a bedroom should not feel half so much like a prison.

Through another door, and into another hall, this one cutting right, and towards the interior of palace; this one lined with faces. There are no windows here, just darkness; a red plush carpeting, paneled walls, blue wallpaper; gold-framed portraits, staring accusingly. Elsa pauses, her back to the moonlight. The candle flickers in a cold breeze; her breath escapes in a white cloud.

She shakes her head, quickly, and makes down the hall, but, like every time—this evening, and this morning, and yesterday, and the day before, and all the days since her coronation—she has to stop. Turn. Look up.

The painting here, in this hall of former kings and queens, was not as grand as the one that hung several rooms over; it was a perfect copy, however, down to the periwinkle of the queen's dress and the length of the king's hair. She's still learning to feel, and this feels—hollow. She twists the candle, towards the empty space that would someday house her picture. Now it was nothing but a blank wall.

Elsa takes a deep breath, feeling ice creeping through her veins. She turns. Breathe. Count. There you go. Breathe. Count. There. Elsa focuses on the warm orange light of her little candle and turns her back. She should be taking her own advice—asleep. Somewhere, if not in her room, instead of walking about—

She hopes Anna has gone to bed.

The painting directly across is faded, and old, despite the lack of direct sunlight. Elsa can look at it critically, because she does not know the faces personally, did not watch them hover over her every night, whispering frightened lullabies in her ear. They are rather faded; and the style of the time called for broad, loose brushstrokes. There is a feeling of purples and whites, elegance—a sharp-nosed man and his softer bride. Queen Hanna and King Rolf, the first rulers of Arendelle. Elsa remembers the tiny print in her history books, the lineages—and he married her, and she beget him, and—

The oil is cracked in the bottom left corner; there is something white shining through the dark navy background. Elsa steps closer, the candle wavering dangerously, but at least she no longer feels it—the ice, threatening to consume her. She brings a nail to the surface, and, rather surreptitiously, checks the hall. She's alone, and she does not know why she bothered, for she expected that, but still, as she brings her nail against the paint, it feels almost sacrilegious. (Like playing snowstorm at two in the morning with her little sister had felt.) One scratch, two—brief, small things, they wouldn't be noticed—

Something _was_ there; Elsa just couldn't fathom _what_. Her candle was nearing the metal holder, the wax pooling around the bottom; she had things to attend. She would have to come round in the morning.

"What good of a sister will I be," she yawns, stepping back, "if I don't take my own advice?"

Anna was asleep in bed; she should be, too.

* * *

Anna accidentally sends her elbow into his side as she struggles to sit up.

"Woah, woah, woah, feisty pants," he wheezes, trying to regain his breath; he tightens his hold on her arms, "you need to stay still."

There's a pause. The straight swath of moonlight coming from above, through the canyon opening, isn't nearly enough to see by, and all he can make out is the reddish glow of her hair. He keeps her firmly in place; they're practically chest to chest, legs to legs; he swallows. She says, "You do realize that it's almost physically impossible for me to do that?"

"You strung a sentence together, that's good."

"Why? Why's that good?"

"You hit your head on the way down."

Anna leers at him, closing the distance in a way that makes him incredibly uncomfortable and incredibly—well, comfortable—at the same time. He can make out the sharp swoop of her nose. "How'd you know I hit my head?"

"I _heard _it."

She purses her lips.

"No, seriously, it sounded like a rock hitting another—well, smaller rock."

"Are you comparing my head to a big rock?"

"…maybe?"

Anna slaps his chest, but without much force behind it, and he thinks she may be smiling; he wishes he could see. She makes to move again.

"No," he says, and he swears to himself this is for her own good, and not because he wants to ask if he can kiss her again, "you might have a concussion."

"A what-zit?"

"Did they teach you _anything_ up in that palace?"

"French."

He rolls his eyes, even though she can't see. He opens his mouth to say something, but she beats him to it. "I'm _fine_ Kristopher," and she's taken to calling him that when she wants his attention, or to bother him, or to anything, really. Her face is close. So close. He whispers, "Good."

"Good," she echoes back; then quite suddenly she ratchets backwards, driving another elbow into his stomach. "I mean, I should be asking if you're ok! Are you ok? How long have you been down here? _Why'd_ you come down here? Let's see if we can find the torch, is anything broken—"

She shouldn't be moving; once, Kristoff had slipped and fallen on the ice, cracking his head, and he'd felt fine, until an hour or so later, when the dizziness had kicked in, and the vomiting, and Pabbie had to give him some foul-smell antidote to ease the swelling in his head—but, of course, Anna was already halfway to where she thought the torch was. She was nothing but a darker shadow in the black. He says, "I saw some ice."

"You fell down here for _ice_? Kristoff, there is a whole _mountain_ up there."

"No, this was different," he sighs, looking at the narrow opening above. "I wish—I wish you could've seen it, like—it was—well, the nearest I'd ever seen to it," he pauses, "was at your sister's castle."

Anna doesn't say anything for one heartbeat, two. Then: "But that was ice magic; there couldn't have been that down here."

"I know what I saw," he says simply. He's learned to trust his senses, years of scaling mountains in the wilderness, and having family dinners with trolls. There had been a cavern, and the sides had been perfect ice—now he couldn't even make them out. He hears her sigh five or six feet away. "I can't find it."

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, makes to stand on his leg, and suddenly remembers why he hadn't moved. He hisses in pain.

"Kristoff?" He hears Anna fumbling through the darkness. "What's wrong?"

He sighs, slumping backwards. "Nothing."

"It's obviously not _nothing_."

He's not used to this. Help. He rubs his eyes with the back of his gloved hands. The snow settles around his nose. "My leg. It took the brunt of the fall." He hears her stumbling forward in the dark, except she can't see and—"Ow. That leg, yeah."

"Oops."

He feels her hands lightly skimming up his thigh. "Wh—what are you doing, why are you doing that, wh—"

They stop at his face. "There you are." She settles next to him. There's a long pause. Then, "I'm sorry. About before. I don't want to like, smother you or anything, it's not that—I just enjoy spending time with you. That's all. That's all I mean, I mean, you have a good nose. Wait, what?"

He doesn't know how to feel. Fixer upper was right. He reaches up for where he thinks her face is, and his mitten slaps across her cheek. He says very quickly, "I like spending time with you, too." The words tasted strange. Then he drops his hand. He's startled when she takes it again, slowly. He can feel the press of her fingers through her gloves.

"Just, you know," she's smiling, he can tell, "not at the bottom of some perfect-ice-filled ravine."

"I'm not crazy."

"_Suuuree_." She coughs. "Man, do I have a headache."

His stomach clenches. "Anna?"

"What?"

He doesn't know what to do. He knows Sven will have gone back for help, but that left them alone in the meantime, and him with a busted leg. His mind is racing, but his mouth is open, and no sound is coming out.

"Oh," Anna says suddenly. He listens to her scuttle several feet away, and then she is dry-heaving into the snow. He sits up.

"Anna!"

"Dinner, I had—wine. Couple of days ago. That's all. I'm fine, I'm fine. At least I didn't get sick on you."

"Just come back here," he says, and his voice is tense. He can hear her struggling across the powder, which is untouched, and rather thick. She says, "I just want to lie down."

"I don't think that's a good—idea, ok, sure lie down there, that's fine."

She's pressed up against him, face in the snow. He can't tell in the dark if her eyes are closed. He grabs her as gently as he can manage; his leg is beginning to throb. Snow can only do so much. He settles her against his chest. "Are you—is this—are you comfortable?"

She doesn't answer.

"Anna, are you comfortable?"

"Mmm."

"Sven'll be back soon, he'll be back with some guards, maybe, or the other ice harvesters—" Kristoff begins talking, because he doesn't know what else to do, and this was, really, all his fault, wanting to see that ice, and wanting to leave, and take the sled, but she was a _princess_, the girl shivering in his arms was a _princess_ and he was—he was—

Well. He was Kristoff.

And that wasn't much.

* * *

"Just open it," she tells herself. "Quickly. Just—rip the seal. Then you can go to bed. Just open it."

Elsa continues to stare at the thing in front of her. It was the only thing on the desk, and it had not moved since her footman had brought it in. She's surprised it hadn't yet burnt through the mahogany. The fire, waving behind her, pops and cracks in its grate; it's summer, still, and she needs it as much for light as for heat. She is never too warm, or too cold. It's hard to feel.

She feels something towards this letter, though—hatred. And it doesn't burn powerfully, hot and red like she reads in stories—no, it's cold, and slow, the frostbite that surprises merchants in winter and takes entire limbs with it.

The seal is red as blood, with the crest of the royal family and a phoenix rising behind it. The mark of the Southern Isles.

She needed to open it.

She needed to open it now.

She needed—

The door to the library bursts open and she starts back. A shot of ice flies from her outstretched hand and covers the ceiling in a small flurry.

"Your highness!"

"Yes, I'm sorry, I just—" She's reeling, wondering what she is going to say, if the guard is going to turn on her—he's another new one from the batch that had just arrived, with a sharp nose and blonde hair and coal-dark eyes, but no, bless him, he stays silent—

"There's a—reindeer, in the courtyard. The harness—it appears to be that of Princess' Anna's...friend," he finishes, as if unsure just what to call Kristoff, and Elsa, still regaining her breath, cannot help but think that is the crux of all things—

"A reindeer?"

"Alone, yes."

She frowns. "Show me."

* * *

"Are you cold?"

Kristoff had just finished a long, winding tale about the time the trolls tried to teach him how to dance, and how he ended up setting fire to half the forest instead. Anna thinks she would've enjoyed it more if her head didn't hurt so much, or if she didn't feel like being sick. She didn't want to be sick on Kristoff. That'd be rude. What was the question?

"Are you cold?" Kristoff repeats. She feels him shake her, just a little. Her face is nestled in the crook of his shoulder and neck. His arm, wrapped protectively around her, and pressing her close, must be falling asleep. How romantic, she thinks, rather blearily, this would all be very romantic if she didn't want to be sick.

"No," she says slowly. It's like talking with a mouth full of honey. She has to swim to reach her thoughts, and everything just kind of, spills out. "No, I feel—warm. I—haven't felt warm for awhile."

"How long's awhile?"

"Oh," she yawns, "at least a week."

"Stay awake, Anna."

"I am awake."

"A week?"

"No, I'm awake."

"No, what do you mean, you haven't felt warm for a week?"

She feels the need to whisper, so she does, right near his ear, and look at him shiver, "You can't tell Elsa."

"I won't."

"Ever since she froze me, I've been—cold." She yawns again. "But not now."

"That's ridiculous. We're underground, covered in snow, how can you—"

"Shh, silly," she sighs, and her eyes close. "I'm warm."

"Anna?"

No answer.

"Anna?"

No answer.

"_Anna_?"


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n: **hey guys, thank you so much for the support! please read and review :)

* * *

Elsa sees the reindeer and she _knows_.

Sven is yelling angrily, snorting, bucking, pointing his antlers at anyone who comes his way. The guards are circling him, holding loose ropes and one net, but he's deftly avoiding them all, running this way, that.

"Tie him down!"

"Get him—_get him_—"

"Over here!"

Elsa watches. He's wearing tack, but the ends of his harness are trailing behind him with jagged ends, as if torn. Ripped, like Sven had bitten through them. She clenches her fists at her side. "Enough!"

The guards stop immediately. "Your highness!" they mutter, five in echoing unison, and then they bow low, looking ridiculous—hats askew, ropes around their feet. Sven races towards her, where she stands at the entrance to the palace. He rears, pointing his head to the mountains beyond the walls. He does it again. Elsa steps quickly towards him, holding out her hands—ice crusting around her fingernails. "Easy, easy, easy," she soothes. Sven quiets, but his breathing is rapid. "Sven, where is Kristoff?"

Sven repeats the motion towards the mountains.

Should she wake Anna? Elsa clasps her hands together, staring, then—"Prepare a sled!" she orders, trying to stay calm, cool, but there is frost in her veins and she's scared, scared that her sister had been right to be worried and there she was, brushing it off. "Ready a battalion. Seven guards, on horses and in winter gear. Quickly!"

"Yes, your highness!"

"Sven, I'll be right back," she says, placing her hand on the reindeer's nose. "I need you to stay calm, alright?"

Sven snorts. Elsa grabs the edges of her skirt, freeing her legs, and races back into the palace, ignoring, for the moment, queenly mannerism. She nearly sprints up the curved staircase to the hall with the large windows; the moonlight is fading. She comes to a swift stop in front of Anna's door, chest heaving, raising her hand to knock—

She pauses, staring at the white wood.

What would she say?

What _could_ she say?

She bites her lip. Quickly, she needed to do it quickly—

She knocks softly. Waits a heartbeat, tries a little louder. "Anna?" She grabs the door handle, twists. "Anna, I—"

She lets the door fall open. There's the blanket, on the ground; and the balcony doors open; and the bed, empty. The floor flurries out in an arc of sharp ice, shredding the comforter in two, but Elsa has not seen—

She's running.

* * *

"Help!" His voice is ragged, raw. His breath escapes in a little cloud and his lungs hurt and his ankle aches. He had pushed himself upwards, cradling her in his lap, one useless leg splayed out, and there they sit, in the dark. He tries again, "Somebody please!"

He'd lose his voice soon. It was already going, fading away at the edges, soft and silent in the cold. His calls don't get very far. They're dying on the midnight air.

She wasn't moving. She was breathing—slow, stuttering, horribly uneven—but she wasn't moving.

"_Help!_"

* * *

There's a trail of frost that follows her all the way through the city, up into the mountains, but the guards say nothing. High enough, in the cold, thin air, she begins to think more clearly, listening to the wind whistle to her, songs of ice and snow—she looks back and Arendelle is a peaceful, sleeping hamlet, nestled in the crooked arms of the mountains. The sky is lightening, tinged violet across the horizon.

The ground begins to harden, and then she glimpses the first of the snow. They should be high enough to use the sled, which they had loaded on a wagon. Sven is straining beside it, snorting and pawing the ground.

"Let's unload it here, and quickly," Elsa says, dismounting. She grabs the edges of her cloak and tells herself that they cannot tell if the ice is hers, anymore. It's a slim, small comfort.

"Your majesty," one of the guards says, and behind him Sven eagerly, impatiently, sets himself in front of the sled. They begin harnessing him. "It would be dangerous for you to go any further—"

Elsa looks at him coolly. If she was Anna she would say, And if would be dangerous for you to continue that sentence. But she doesn't. She says, "I acknowledge your concern. Thank you. I will ride in the sled."

She gets behind the curved lip, grabbing the reins, and before anyone else can protest she says, "Go, Sven."

* * *

He hears it—the familiar thrum of a sled over powder, Sven's hoof beats, the neighing of several horses—and shouts, "Over here!" It cracks. He tries again. "Over here!"

The clamor overhead, near the jagged crack in the ceiling of wherever they were, comes to a slow stop. People were dismounting.

He's never been so happy to see people in all his life—

"Is she down there?"

—_ok maybe not_.

"Yeah—uh, yes!" he calls back to the queen. "She knocked her head pretty bad on the way down!"

"Prepare some ropes, quickly," she orders. There is no hesitation. When Anna ordered something, she asked nicely—_please can you and thanks_—but even from down here Kristoff knows the woman above is the queen, and is to be listened to. And she frightens him. But not because of her magic—her magic was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

No, she frightens him because she was Anna's sister.

A long rope is dropped from above; he can only make it out at the very top of the cavern before it's lost in darkness. "I can't see it!" he yells back up. So close, and this was taking too long.

There's some mumbling up above, some shuffling of the snow—enough that large clumps of it fall over the edge and land with a soft thud in the darkness, out of reach. Then a palace guard is lowered, holding a shivering lantern in one hand. The flame is barely enough to see by, and certainly not enough to light the entire cavern, but to Kristoff's eyes it is the sun. "Over here!" He waves his hand.

The guard hits the ground, grabs the loose rope that had been tossed over the side, and walks toward them. Again, Kristoff catches the gleam that had brought him down here in the first place—beautiful, swirling purples and blues, something clear, and perfect, but then it's gone. The guard reaches them. "Can you carry her?"

His arms ache and he's tired. So tired. "Yes."

The guard loops the rope around him, tying it tightly. "Can you stand?"

"No."

"Then hold on."

Kristoff grips Anna, and the guard shouts above, "Raise it!"

There's a collective grunt, and then Kristoff rises several inches above the ground. The rope pulls taunt. Anna is still in his grip. His lame leg comes off the ground like the limb of a broken china doll, and he feels pains shooting up into his thigh. They sway backward and forward in the dark, dangling over whatever else was in the cavern, like they were on a swing.

"Pull!"

They rise a little higher.

"Pull!"

And more.

"Pull!"

More still. He's close enough to touch the jagged opening in the cavern ceiling but will not risk letting go of Anna. Slowly, slowly, they inch through the crack, out into the bracing, frigid air. A breeze was beginning to rise, the start of a blizzard. They make it to solid ground. The guards are panting; one bends down and begins picking at the knots of his and Anna's harness. Elsa kneels next to them; the wind is strongest by her, Kristoff notices blankly. She touches Anna's face.

"How badly did she fall?"

"She hit her head," he repeats. "I think she might have a concussion—swelling, but if we can get her to the trolls—"

Elsa nods sharply. "Yes. Of course." She turns towards the sled. When she realizes Kristoff is not following her, she turns impatiently.

"I—my leg is broken."

"Help him up," she orders. The wind surges. Two guards take Anna and lay her in the back, while two more grab him gracelessly beneath his arms and settle him next to the queen. "Meet us back at the castle. Leave the wagon here."

"Your majesty—"

"That's an order."

His leg is on fire. He sets it out gingerly sideways, finding Sven looking back at him with a concerned gaze. "Thanks, buddy."

He snorts.

"Sven, take us to the trolls," Elsa orders.

Kristoff doesn't say that she doesn't get to tell his reindeer what to do, because she's the queen, and there is no arguing with her. Because she is the queen, and they are running out of time. The sled lurches forward into the blustering night. His tongue is thick in his mouth.

"It was my fault," he says suddenly. She's the queen. He can't be talking to her like this, can he? But Anna was a princess, and he talked to her like this, so did that mean—and how should he act, and—_he was so confused_.

"If Anna looked before she leapt and walked before she ran, however, I imagine we wouldn't be in this mess," Elsa's voice is tight.

"But, then, uh—she, um, wouldn't be Anna." He rubs the back of his neck. "Would she?"

Elsa blinks at this. Her knuckles are painfully white on the reins. Too white. As white as the snow on either side of them. There is surprise in her eyes. A little bit of pain. She says, "Twenty-one years, and I still don't know my sister."

Kristoff doesn't know how to ask what she means. The gates had been closed for so long—what had happened, behind those close doors? And what could he say to that? _People_. He didn't _know_. So he sits beside the queen and remains silent, trying to ignore the throbbing in his leg, which lights up with every bump and dip in the road.

They take the sled as far as they can, before the ground becomes much too green, and then they have to stop. Kristoff leans forward, wincing, and unhooks Sven. Elsa, biting her lip in concentration, summons up the gentlest of snow breezes to help support her sister to the reindeer's back.

"Straight ahead," Kristoff says. "Sven knows the way."

Almost reluctantly, Elsa asks, "Will you be ok?"

Kristoff nods. The sisters continue forward.

He's left behind.

* * *

The little valley is peaceful, and warm, but the grass around where she stands is turning white. Sven paws the ground next to her. She keeps a hand on Anna.

The last time she had been here was the beginning of the end—her parents standing as silent sentinels over her, the terrifying vision of the magic turning horrible. And Anna, still and silent, as she was now. In a strange way, Elsa supposed this was her fault, too. In a twisted, strange, roundabout way. Her fault, nonetheless.

What she had said to Kristoff, in the sled, floats back to her. It seemed even Kristoff knew her sister better than she. She and Anna—they were on uneven footing, still feeling each other out.

"Hello?" she calls softly. "Please, I—I don't know if you remember me, but—"

A sound like an avalanche, and at least thirty boulders roll towards her. Elsa fights the memories, but they come on fast, strong.

_Conceal. Don't feel. Don't let it show_—

"Queen Elsa!" A troll with a bulbous nose and a mane of brown, dying grass bows before her. He's standing where a rock had been, moments before, and now that she's looking, _all_ the rocks are trolls. "Of course we remember you." His sharp eyes drift towards Sven. "Is that Princess Anna?" He frowns, stepping forward. "I was made to believe that she no longer—"

"No! No, it's not that," Elsa breaks in, afraid to speak of it. "No, she—fell. Kristoff said it was a concussion, and you could heal her—"

"Where's Kristoff? Where's my sweet baby boy?" Another troll asks, pushing through the crowd.

"He's back at the sled—he broke his leg—but please, can you heal her—"

"Bulda," the elder troll says to the second who spoke, "attend to Kristoff. As for the princess, lay her here." He gestures to the ground. Elsa summons a breeze to help her get her sister down from Sven's back. "The head is easily persuaded," the elder troll explains, pressing his thick fingers to either side of her sister's skull. "Some swelling, it seems." There is a glimmer of yellow, red, blue sparks, and the elder troll smiles. "But nothing a little magic cannot fix."

It bathes Anna's temples, before fading to the whisper of a thought, and floating away on the breeze. Elsa's fingers itch. "Is she—?"

The elder troll closes his eyes, breathes in, then opens them with a smile. "Some sleep is all she needs."

Elsa lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The wind lessens. She settles back on her heels, feeling like a young child again. "Sir—"

"Please, call me Pabbie."

"Pabbie." Elsa tests out the name. "Where—where does the magic come from?"

"Your magic, or mine?"

She's aware of the eyes of twenty other trolls looking in her direction, blinking, murmuring, whispering. She says, "All magic."

"Each has a different source," Pabbie says. With a wave of his hand the sparks return, floating around them in a gentle swirl. They skirt her cheek in a warm kiss. "My magic comes from the earth."

"Do you know—do you know where mine comes from? My curse?"

Pabbie looks at her a little sadly. The sparks glide over the frozen grass beneath her feet, and the ice melts. "You think of it as a curse? You were born with this gift."

Elsa looks at her hands. Anna is lying peacefully on the ground. Her breathing has evened out, but Elsa can still see her, young and hurting after that fateful night, can still see her, frozen on that lake. "I know. But it doesn't always—feel like one."

"You have learned the secret to controlling it," Pabbie says slowly.

"Love will thaw," Elsa smiles softly down at Anna, but it melts from her face quickly. "Yes. But I want to know—I want to know _why_. Why me."

Pabbie leans forward. He says, "You've learned control, but your heart is still divided." He presses one of his tough, leathery fingers to her chest. "Learn the secret of your magic's origin—come to terms with it—and you will be that much stronger."

* * *

"My baby!"

"W—what, hey, ow, ow, _Ma_—"

Bulda attacks the side of his face, landing on his shoulder, and Kristoff falls heavily sideways under her weight. His leg smarts. "Are you hurt? Where's it hurting? What's hurting?" She begins picking at his shirtsleeves and pants. He bats her away.

"Ma, please, I'm _fine."_

"Don't you lie to me," Bulda says sternly, grabbing his chin in her rocky hands. "Honestly, Kristoff, and what did you do to Anna?"

"N-Nothing! Why would I—"

"Are you two _married_ yet?"

"No, Ma, we're not—_ow_!" Kristoff howls indignantly. "You could've at least _warned_ me before you set it—"

Bulda runs one of her pink crystals over his leg. It sparks, warm, and the pain eases. "Don't be a baby. And I don't want you putting weight on this for at least twelve hours."

He's sitting awkwardly, half-knocked-over in the front of the sled, and there's the troll who raised him, standing on the lip of it, with her hands on her hips. Kristoff wonders at his life sometimes. He just wanted it to be simple, uncomplicated.

"And why," his mother asks him, "have you not proposed yet?"

"Well—she—she just got un-engaged to that—Hans of the Southern Isles, and I just am trying to figure stuff out—"

"Figure what out! Kristoff, baby, I've never seen you look at _anyone_ like that. Excepting Sven."

"Trust me, I don't look at Sven like that."

Bulda leans forward. "Uh-huh. It's weird, honey, maybe that's what scaring her off—"

"Ma, please—"

"Look, Kristoff. You love her! What more is there to figure out?"

"Everything?" He sighs, rubbing his face. "Is Pabbi with her?"

"She'll be fine, now." Bulda sits, swinging her short, stout legs. "Baby, talk to me."

"I—it just. I don't—"

"Use your words, Kristoff," Bulda says.

"I'm scared by how much I love her," Kristoff groans quickly, because his mother would keep at him until he told her anyway, so might as well get it over with. "I've never needed anyone but you guys."

Bulda regards him shrewdly. "And?"

Kristoff rubs his eyes. "And she's a princess."

"What, who thinks my baby isn't good enough for a princess, huh? I'll show them, I'll show—"

"Me, I don't!"

"Oh, Kristoff," Bulda jumps forward and hugs him tightly. "You're good enough for anyone."

He sighs. "If only things were that simple."

* * *

She's floating. She'd been having a dream about being kissed by trolls, but then the troll had turned into Kristoff, and somewhere Elsa had been yelling her name. She opens her eyes. The sky is the pale pink of morning. She's lying on something flat, and the jagged point of brown trees are moving by slowly overhead.

She can just make out a head of white, a head of blonde. It's silent.

She sighs, contentedly, and closes her eyes.

* * *

The sun has fully risen by the time they load the second sled back into the wagon, and begin down the road to Arendelle. Kristoff watches his new sled recede in the distance with a sigh. Elsa says, "We'll come back to get it tomorrow." She watches the mountain man nod sadly. Then she watches his eyes drift to Anna, where she lies in the back, and the sadness dissipates. His smile is small. She opens her mouth, then closes it. She hands the reins over to Kristoff instead, and in silence, the two continue down the road.

The call goes out as they near the palace. "The queen! The queen is back! And the princess!"

Several of the servants come rushing to greet them as they pull the wagon to a stop in the courtyard. It's already unbearably hot—summer trying to hold on with its last, dying grasp. Elsa stands. She's bone-tired. Kristoff looks ready to drop. She says, "You're more than welcome to stay in one of the extra rooms."

"Oh, no, it's fine. I'll just—make sure she's gets set up," he says, jerking his chin in Anna's direction. As he walks around the wagon, he pats Sven's neck gratefully. When he reaches Anna, he picks her up like she weighs nothing. She nestles there, safely in his arms, and Elsa shakes her head, fighting the urge to rub her eyes. She turns to one of the servants. "Guide Kristoff to Anna's bedroom."

"Yes, your majesty."

"And then prepare my—"

"Your highness!" A footman shouts. She turns.

"Yes?"

"A visitor has arrived in your, ah, absence. Someone come to see you. I've led them to the library to wait for your highness."

Elsa frowns. She had not been expecting any visitors. "Who?"

"A prince of the Southern Isles."


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n: **alright, guys, so here's what i'm nervous about.

Prince Hans has twelve older brothers. meaning i'll have twelve OCs. and i know OCs are kind of like blah, and i'm nervous about them. so i'm sorry in advance. blame Hans for having twelve older brothers, the jerk.

OK HERE YA GO byes (and thank you so much for all the reviews/favs/alerts! please keep doing it! it keeps me on my toes and writing :) )

* * *

Quickly, quickly, Elsa tells herself, but still, her hands hover before the door handles. Behind her the portraits of the kings and queens stare accusingly, eyes digging like knives into her back. Fractals of angry, dark blue ice are growing slowly from her feet. She looks at the door; she had not really _looked_ at it, ever. White, with purple and green flowers, diamonds, swirls. The handles are gold.

Elsa takes a deep breath. Behind this beautiful door was someone she did not want to see. Anyone from the Southern Isles—after Hans—and all she can hear is _your sister is dead_, and all she can see is the sword breaking, shattering, into a million pieces.

_Don't be the monster they want you to be, they think you are, don't be, monster—_

How could anyone wish to rule so badly?

Elsa takes a deep breath, but one turns into two, and three, and then she is heaving rapidly. She turns from the door. Ice cracks across the walls, growing like mold in the corners of the ceiling. Born and bred and raised for this, she thinks, looking at the painting she always had to look at, next to the empty space where hers would be hung; but not prepared. How could one have been prepared, for what had happened?

Perhaps by teaching her love in the first place, Elsa thinks bitterly, turning sharply on the painting, the eyes of the king, the passive worry of the queen, and there are the first rulers of Arendelle facing her once more, and the chipping, peeling paint in the corner. Elsa stares at that paint. It's almost cream, refreshing underneath the dark purple. Breathe in. Breathe out. The ice recedes.

In one swift movement, she turns towards the door, and opens it.

* * *

"No, she doesn't need that right now, she just needs some sleep—"

"And what knowledge do you have to give this prognosis? Should the _Royal Ice Harvester_ know better than the Royal Physician in such matters as these?"

"Uh, no, I guess, but I know—uh, my family, who—"

"I shall bandage her head. Bring me warm water."

"Wha—me? No! She really just needs sleep."

"She _needs_ bandages."

"_Sleep_."

"Bandages!"

"Sleep," Anna groans. The voices had pulsed angry and white behind her eyes. She feels her bed beneath her, familiar blankets, flattened pillow. "Sleep. How 'm I supposed to sleep with you two yelling?"

"Apologies, your highness." That would be the physician. She had never liked him; not since she'd broken her arm climbing to the roof of the palace, and he had had to _re _-break it, yeah, no thanks. He continues, "I shall just perform a quick—"

"You can leave. Please," she yawns, burrowing deeper into her blankets, cold to the bone and feeling like she had swallowed a whole bucket of felt. "I'll call you…later…" she feels herself being dragged back to darkness. Sleep. Sleep is good—

"Your majesty." Tight voice, doesn't agree, whatever—sleep, sleep—

She hears the door click and blinks one eye open, blearily. Everything is too bright. She wants to hiss, and retreat away. She says, "Not you."

Kristoff pauses, just at the door. She can see the tension across his shoulders, can hear the sharp, angry footfalls of the physician leaving down the hall. She continues, "I mean, if you want. You can stay here," she yawns again, and why's she so tired, huh, "if you want. Or you can sleep in the stables," her voice is getting softer, "why do you like to do that, huh? But it's ok. I don't judge. Well, I judge a little…" she rubs her open eye. Kristoff seems to be having an internal debate, no doubt with Sven. He's standing in the doorway. Standing. _Standing_—

She starts up suddenly, too quickly, and her world spins. "Woah."

"Hey, feisty pants," he says, letting the door fall shut and walking to her bedside. He pushes her back against the pillows. "Let's just relax, okay?"

"No," she struggles, batting his arm away, but it's like fighting with a snow plow, "your leg, how's it—wasn't it broken?"

Kristoff looks down, raising one leg as if he's unsure of how to use it, and then says, "Ma—I mean, my mother—she fixed it. She's not my actual mother. Adopted, I'm—adopted—anyway."

She wants to say she figured that out, from the, you know, troll-thing, standing there as he is, scuffing the floor. She also wants to ask him about it, but the world is still spinning and she figures now is not the time. She takes some slow breaths through her nose and finally gets her mouth to work. "So you're ok?"

"Just about." He gives a crooked smile. "You should be sleeping."

"I know," and she feels it coming again, like a wolf waiting to pounce or something—did wolves pounce? She was so horrible at metaphors—she pats the bed next to her without blushing, because she's not thinking too hard about anything except _sleepsleepsleep_. She yawns. "You look…beat…" she closes her eyes, listening to the soft padding of Kristoff's boots; he sounded like he was walking through snow, and not on marble or hardwood or whatever the floor actually was. She hears him drawing the drapes across the windows. The light dims. _Step-step-step_. "'m tired…"

"Me, too."

Then she feels a swift, shy kiss to the side of her head, the only part of her visible beneath her blankets because she's _cold_. "I'm glad you're ok. But don't do that again."

"Do what?"

Pause. She can picture him looking to one side. "You know. Worry me and stuff."

"No promises, except on stuff," she smile-sighs. She hears him hunkering down next to her and opens one eye again. "What are you doing?"

Kristoff is curling up on the floor, just beneath the side of her bed.

"Kristopher," and she can't get enough angry force behind it; she's too tired. "There's a whole half-a-bed right here. I promise to give you, like, at least a third of it."

The look of sheer terror on his face is hilarious, and she's too tired to be insulted.

"_Fiiine_, sleep on the floor, geez." She reaches blindly behind her, grabs the extra pillow, and throws it at his head. Then she makes to take her blanket off.

"No," he says, "keep it. I'm used to the cold."

And Anna, like a half-remembered dream, recalls being pressed against him in that little crevice and feeling, for the first time since all that—stuff had gone down, warm. She shivers beneath her blanket. She listens to Kristoff settling on the floor. The stables would be more comfortable at this point. She feels bad. She feels tired.

She drops her hand. Kristoff takes it.

And, like that, she falls asleep.

* * *

A chilly breeze follows her into the room. The fire sputters once, and then fizzles out. One of the windows flies open. She can hear the birds outside, can feel the heat of the summer sun. Then she's saying, "Forgive me, please, my—" _my curse still gets away from me_—but she cuts off abruptly. She heads to the fireplace, striking a match along the outside stone and tossing it back to the still smoldering wood. She'll leave the window open, leaving the window open would—the sun, and—

Elsa looks up, and then has to stop herself from taking a step backward, from gripping her desk. She feels ice crusting beneath her fingernails. Every inch of her is screaming _run_.

"Queen Elsa," he bows, and he hadn't seemed to notice her slip.

It's the eyes, she thinks, after the initial shock is gone, and her breathing has slowed; after she has told herself to calm, calm, calm.

He has the same eyes.

She focuses on the other things. The crooked nose, the visible freckles—the brown mop of his hair, which had escaped any sort of attempt at confinement. It was curling at the ends. She focuses on these things and avoids the eyes.

When he straightens he's biting his tongue between his teeth and looking intently at his forearm, holding up the sleeve of his white coat. She can just make out the edges of a neat, printed scrawl. He looks between it, and her, rapidly, and then says rather hopelessly, "I just—ah, prepared a little something, here, let me—" He coughs. Bows again. "Queen Elsa. I am Prince Albert, twelfth son of the crown of the Southern Airs—Isles," he grimaces, "ha, it got a little blurred—and I want to formally thank you for—receiving me at your—place." He looks up. Looks back down. Fixes, rapidly, "Palace. Your palace."

Elsa's eyes flit to the desk, and the missive on it. She begins to curse, ice growing around her feet, _because she hadn't read that should she have read that what was she supposed to_—

"And, uh, that's smudged," he mutters under his breath. He bites his tongue again, and then lets his sleeve drop with a sigh. When he meets her eyes, the ice around her feet grows. She hopes he hasn't noticed. "I just wanted to formally apologize for my missing your coronation."

Elsa blinks. She grasps her hands together. She says, "Excuse me?"

He cants his head, but doesn't look too horribly offended that she wasn't even aware of his absence. "Your coronation. My brother Hans and I were supposed to come, but he gave me bad directions up near Corona, and then I blew off course in a storm—my men and I only just made it to port."

Elsa says, "Only just?"

"Yes. I had more to say—more prepared—but I—it's—" he lifts up his sleeve, and his arm is nothing but a smear of black ink. He mutters, "It was mostly congratulations and stuff—are you, um, enjoying—queenliness? Being queen?"

Elsa is floating. She says, "Excuse me, Prince Albert."

She walks out.

* * *

Kristoff rolls over, snoring gently, using Anna's arm as a blanket. She slides halfway off the bed, but doesn't wake.

* * *

Elsa's room is a blizzard.

She paces, back, forth, back, forth, and the ice climbs like ivy up the walls, coalescing on the ceiling in a multitude of snowflakes that glisten in the summer light. The wind swirls around her, drapes, sheets, dresses frozen solid. She grabs at her hair. Back, forth, back, forth. Calm down. She needed to calm down, this couldn't escape this room—

_Damn this curse_! She flings her arm out to the side and her wardrobe bursts in a frosted blast. She stares for a moment at her outstretched hand, then at the splintered pieces of wood, and wonders how it would be like to, just for a moment, be _normal_, to be able to _feel_, fully. Nothing by halves. To feel like Anna felt. Elsa thinks that she had maybe been starting to, but this was _too much_—

She pauses at the edge of her bed. Her chest is heaving. And she thinks, faintly, like it's still an impossibility—

_I can talk to Anna_.

And then she thinks—

_Anna is recovering. _

And then—

_I need her now_.

Elsa takes a step towards the door, bites her lip, stops. She had a prince of the Southern Isles in the library and a delicate situation on hand and she had not slept and—

She exits her room, shutting the door on the small blizzard. Three, four steps, and she's at her sister's door. She pauses just before the handle; then, worrying her lip, she opens it, trying to ignore her personal train of frost creeping up the jamb as she does.

Anna is lying half on her bed, her forehead resting on Kristoff's shoulder; the ice harvester is curled on the floor, holding one of her hands. Elsa says, "What are you two doing?"

Kristoff wakes up immediately. In waking up immediately, he sits up immediately, and his forehead collides with Anna's. "Ow," she hisses sluggishly, and then she loses her balance and falls off the bed. It's a mess, in general, and Elsa is sure the extra head bump did _not_ help her sister's already swollen brain, but this—"You said you were going to make sure she was situated," she says tightly.

This is too much.

"Um," Kristoff replies, looking at the hand he's holding, and Anna half-lying on top of him.

"I asked him to stay," Anna replies, sitting up, rubbing her head, "he was beat. Is something wrong?"

"This!" Elsa says—there's a prince in her library and this in her sister's bedroom and—"Do you think that because you're a princess you can do whatever you want without consequences?" The wind is growing, seeping through the cracks.

"Why are you getting so angry?" Anna replies. Her eyes are narrowing. "He was sleeping on the floor!"

"Anna," Elsa shuts her eyes, praying for patience, and all she sees is them holding hands. "We have an image to maintain. We have propriety. I don't care who he is, he can't stay unsupervised in your room, people will begin to talk—"

"Let them talk," Anna says, getting to her feet, dusting off her dress, rubbing her head. "I don't—why does it matter, and ok, Elsa, sorry, not to be a downer, here, but _nobody_ is going to talk about _anything_ more than your ice meltdown—which, yes, was my fault, but—"

"Please leave," Elsa says. Kristoff stands. His face is red.

"Yeah. Of course."

"_Elsa_—"

"Don't," Elsa says quietly. The wind is growing, the temperature dropping. If Anna is too worked up to notice, Kristoff is not. "You are a princess, Anna. There's a responsibility that comes with the open gates. It's not just you, anymore."

Kristoff, who had taken his skullcap off to crush between his nervous hands, says to Anna, "I'll, uh, find you later." His eyes are downcast. He stops next to Elsa. "I'm—just—I'm sorry."

Elsa nods her head in acknowledgement. There is the icy ivy, along the walls. The door shuts. She looks at Anna, half-twisted in her blanket, hair a mess, bleary eyed and in need of more sleep, and she knows right then that she cannot talk to her sister about this, that this was a stupid, foolish idea, that if she had just never come in this fight would have never happened—

"Why?" is all Anna asks.

"I told you why," Elsa says, turning. Her head is high, her neck straight. The wind is retreating, the ice. "You're a princess, Anna. It's time you began acting like one."

"Is that why you came in here? To yell at me?"

Elsa stops at the door. Lying is easy. "To check on you."

* * *

Kristoff slips into the stables. It's warm, and smells of hay, and horse. It's mid-morning, but it feels like the middle of the night, his eyes heavy, sticky, his feet and arms sluggish. He collapses in the nearest pile of hay. After a few moments he feels a nip at his shirt.

"Hey, bud."

Sven blows out his lips at him.

"No, yeah, Anna's fine." He picks up his cap and puts it on his face. Smells like sweat, looks like darkness. "What's wrong, then?" Sven asks him. "Well, nothing like getting reminded of the princess thing. Again." Sven asks, "By who?" He says, "By Queen Elsa. I get it. She's a princess. I'm not." Sven asks, "So you want to be a princess?"

Kristoff lifts his cap just enough to glare at his friend.

He's tired. It was an indiscretion on his part, something that should've never happened, but after listening to her breathing slow all night and getting her to the trolls and his Ma and after everything that had happened a little hand holding—

But image. Elsa was right.

Kristoff shuts his eyes.

"Why can't things just be _simple_," he groans.

* * *

"I suppose—fights come with—the territory, right?" Anna grunts, pulling on one slipper, and then the other, and then tumbling, with an _oof_! out of bed. She hits the floor painfully, and this time no one is there to ease her fall. She sits there for a minute, trying to get her head to stop spinning. Her hand is still warm from where Kristoff had been holding it.

She grasps her knees, resting her forehead on them. The ground was cold and she was cold. Elsa's wind had blown in here. And there, in the upper corner of the ceiling, was a single icicle, the color of bluebells in the summer, twisted and cut and utterly beautiful. She wishes she could do that. Icy magic things. And she gets it. The princess thing. Ok, maybe she doesn't _get_ it, get it, but she's—well, she's getting there. And maybe having Kristoff alone with her in her room hadn't been the best idea—even though they hadn't been like—

Like—

_Hnn_—or—anything.

Not that _hnning_ with Kristoff would be bad or was a thought to groan about, it was actually a very good thought, but she was also thinking about open doors and finding her place and taking her time—but it was hard when everything was new and stuff and—

She takes a deep breath. Sits up. Ok, that wasn't the point. The point of this all was that Elsa had a point, too. Lots of points. Too many points.

And some part of Anna tells her that Elsa had not just come in to check on her. Some part of Anna tells her that Elsa would let her sleep.

Which meant something was up.

She gets up from the floor, with the help of her bed. She slides across the ground to her door. She's the master of expending the least amount of energy to get the greatest amount of reward—she falls on the door handle, and it's still cold. Outside the trail of frost leads down the hall, and into her sister's room.

She doesn't pause at the door. Not anymore, doesn't even knock—just barrels in, already talking, already—"Elsa? I'm sorry. I mean, about Kristoff. I suppose I can tell you I wasn't—_doing_ anything, 'cause that's like a sisterly thing to talk about, right? I don't know. It's sort of…yeah…" Anna fades off. The room is a mess. The wardrobe is shattered, in the corner, and the wood lying across the ground. It looks like a shipwreck. The walls are dripping, ice melting, and Elsa's dresses are pooled across the floor.

Anna is hit with a sudden bout of dizziness. She covers her mouth, slipping her way gracelessly to her sister's bed. The blankets were the only thing miraculously dry, thanks to the canopy above. She lies down for a moment, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth, trying to quell the nausea.

The canopy is a boring navy. Her sister had spent how many years looking up at it?

Anna curls up on her side. The bed smelled like a winter morning.

She closes her eyes.

* * *

Elsa is back in the hall of portraits, looking at the white door to the library. She is laying out her plan of action—which is to say, listing what she knows and hoping something will come out of it.

Prince Albert of the Southern Isles was on the other side of that door.

Prince Albert of the Southern Isles, having been waylaid, knew nothing of his brother's betrayal, nor of Elsa's powers, nor of the winter-in-summer.

The question became how to deal with Prince Albert.

Would he be offended, if she came right out with it? Would he take up his sword and—

Elsa shakes her head. Now she was beginning to sound like her sister. There was one black sheep in every family. After all, she thinks rather grimly, floating a snowflake over her knuckles, look at her.

She opens the doors. The prince shuts the book he had been holding with a snap, and a guilty expression, shoving it back onto the shelf. He says, "It's _Tristan and Isolde_. I read it for the sword-fighting." He cocks a half grin. When she doesn't return it, it falls from his face.

Elsa says, "Prince Albert. Perhaps you should sit. There are some…_things_ I need to—inform you of."

At that moment the door behind her opens again. She feels the shiver of her magic. Olaf says, "Elsa? I just thought you should know, Anna's in your room. Also, something destroyed your closet," he finishes, at a whisper.

The prince looks between her and the snowman clapping his brittle hands.

The prince freaks out.

* * *

"Hello, brother. My, you look so angry! Metal bars suit not one with so _fair_ a complexion as yours."

"Are you here to gloat?"

"No. I imagine the others did enough of that. You tried. I cannot blame you for doing so. From mistakes we learn, and all that. Maybe next time you will aim a little lower."

"As you have? You, content to stay in the shadows—"

"Ah, baby brother. I am quite pleased with my position. Perhaps, if you had been as well, you would not now be eating without your silver spoon."

"Shut _up_."

"Hans. I thought I taught you better."

"None of you ever taught me anything at all."


	5. Chapter 5

**a/n: **i am so excited for where this is going! please read and review :)

* * *

"Want some food? I know you do, boy! I know you do! Here, doggy, here!"

"Oh, he looks so sad, stuck behind those bars. You sure you don't want this nice steak? Medium rare, just like you like it. Got the cook to prepare it specifically—plus some potatoes, on the side, and this—mmm—warm bread. Certainly would sit better than that prison garbage they've been feeding you."

Hans is looking at his hands, fisted in his lap. There is dirt encrusted beneath his fingernails. His white jacket is a dusted sort of gray. His lunch is still sitting, untouched, in the corner of his cell—gruel, three days old, at least; the slops from the kitchen. It's the color and consistency of mud. He is looking at his hands, at his feet, at his old lunch—anywhere but at the two men standing just outside his cell.

But it's hard, with the fresh smell of warm, golden bread and butter-crusted potatoes; with the sizzling juices of meat wafting past. He hadn't eaten half-so-well since he left Arendelle.

He rubs his jaw.

"Come _on_, baby brother, come on! We got it specially _for_ you."

He turns. He tells himself he turns because if he does not do what they want of him, they will not _shut up_—he knew that the moment their footsteps echoed down the dungeon stairs. He stands, throwing out the tails of his coat behind him. He keeps his head high. No use in wallowing, none at all—he takes two steps, until he could press himself up against the bars, and then, slowly, reaches for the plate of food.

It's dropped onto the grimy floor. The china shatters, the bread turns black; the potatoes splash like white blood and the meat flops unappetizingly.

"Oops. Silly me."

The two men break out into raucous shouts of laughter. Hans keeps his head high, his face a mask, but they can probably see it in his eye—he is raging, seething, and if he were out of this stupid cell he would murder them both in an instant—

"Viktor! Tomas! That's enough."

His twin brothers sober up immediately, hanging languidly off each other's shoulders. They turn down the hall, the flickering torchlight sending their faces into sharp relief.

"Terrorizing your brother hardly seems like a worthy pastime, now that you two are grown—despite it being a time honored tradition."

"Your majesty," Viktor and Tomas bow as one. They're grimacing. Tomas continues, "We were just having a bit of fun."

"Fun?" Hans snarls. He rams himself against the bars and grabs Tomas by the lapels of his jacket. He's got surprise on his side, or he would have never managed to tip his brother off his feet. "Like the time you pretended I was invisible for two years? _That sort of fun_?"

"Hans, please. Calm down." And there he is, King of the Southern Isles, in all his full-mustached glory. Hans' jaw tightens. Viktor roughly shoves him backwards, and the momentum carries him back to his cot. Tomas rubs his neck, looking like murder. The king says, "Get me a chair."

Viktor rushes to comply, rattling to the empty guard station and dragging a wooden one over while Tomas cracks his neck. The chair is set. The king sits. He says, "Leave us."

"Enjoy your dinner, brother," Tomas says with a dark grin, kicking the broken china and bits of meat and bread halfway into his cell, smashing the detritus through the bars. Hans listens to their footsteps fading down the hall, up the stairs. He leans back against the wall, and gives a rather lazy, shit-eating grin in the direction of the king.

The man was only his _brother_, after all.

"I didn't think you were going to come," Hans says, dusting off his coat sleeves. "Everyone else came. Well. Everyone else still _alive_."

"Did you murder Albert?"

"Murder my own brother? Why would I perform such a terrible crime?" Hans licks his lips. "Why, that's almost as bad as murdering a father." He rolls his head along the wall behind him, fixing his brother in a level gaze. "Wouldn't you say?"

The silence is going to smother him.

"Hans," the king begins at last, clasping his hands in front of him, and his mouth is the thinnest line of the thinnest thought, "do you wish to remain in this dungeon?"

Hans thinks of the throne of Arendelle and nearly punches the wall.

"Answer me."

"No," he snaps.

"Well, that is what my councilors are crying for. Your brother, missing; Arendelle—"

"Don't speak to me of Arendelle," Hans growls.

"What, don't speak to you of your mistake? You could have had a kingdom, and instead you have a cell. You should be reminded _everyday_ of the mistake. Of what you lost the Southern Isles."

"I did not attempt it for you," Hans says, glaring, and his brother is sitting there with a condescending smile on his face. "It would have been my kingdom," he puts a hand to his chest, "_my throne_!"

"Oh, Hans," the king smiles at him. Leans back in his wooden chair. "But do tell me, where is Albert?"

"I sent him in the wrong direction," Hans tells his shoes. "Near Corona."

"Ah. No competition, then, for—love, was it?"

Hans thinks of doors. "Something like that."

"Well, baby brother. That was a quaint notion. But let us forget thoughts of love and turn instead to this predicament that your actions have placed us in. Tell me," King Alfons says slowly, canting his head, "of Queen Elsa."

* * *

Elsa thinks that the meeting could, on a whole, be going better.

The prince blinks. Olaf blinks back. There they are, in the middle of the library, having a staring contest, and this only _after_ the prince had swung his foot into poor Olaf's head—

"Elsa," the snowman says, through the side of his mouth, not breaking eye contact with the man leaning in front of him, "I'm saying this because I love you, but I think you should run."

Elsa crosses her arms tightly to her chest.

"So you're—you're a snowman," Prince Albert repeats, "and you—just you," his eyes keep flitting over to her, and then back to his forearm, as if he's itching for something to read, "you're alive."

Olaf stretches his fingers. "I think so, yes."

"Well," the prince coughs into his hand. He gets to his knees, so that he and Olaf are finally at eye level, "I'm sorry I kicked you in the head. I don't much like it when people kick _me_ in the head, so I've tried to make it not a—common practice thing—" he clears his throat. "Yes. Anyway."

He holds out his hand. Olaf claps his own excitedly. "Oh! Oh, a handshake! Here you go," and the snowman detaches one arm, holding it with his other, and extends the whole thing in the prince's direction. Through the side of his mouth Olaf says, "No, seriously, Elsa, run."

"Thank you, Olaf," Elsa grimaces, watching the handshake. The snowman reattaches his arm. "Why don't you go check on Anna for me?"

"I told you, Anna is in your—"

"Could you double-check?"

Olaf nods his head vigorously. He totters from the room, but as he leaves he curves two of his fingers towards his eyes, and then points them at Prince Albert. Elsa groans, letting her forehead fall into her hand.

"I'm really sorry I kicked him," Prince Albert says as the door falls shut, and she can't tell if he's oblivious or just polite. "It's really just a knee-jerk sort of reaction. My brother used to practice spells in my bedroom, and I'd find all sorts of stuff—you know, heads and bodies and—but you didn't need to know that, I'm sorry. Ha. This is why I usually stick to a script."

She looks over at him, feeling the points of her elbows digging into her side, and she cannot help but ask, "Your brother has—magic?"

"One of them. Some magic. It's not—it's like—" he makes a twisted up sort of face, like someone just spit in his soup, and Elsa manages a very small, very-almost smile. The prince returns it shyly. "Anyway, if you can make talking snowmen your magic is already much more helpful than my brother's. Is that what you needed to inform me of? Ice magic and talking snow people?"

And everything comes crashing back down.

Elsa glances at her desk, and the untouched missive there. She looks at Albert's eyes and sees only _his_. She doesn't know how to say _your brother is a traitor and tried to kill me_ without sounding offensive, and she's tired—bone-weary, several nights of unrest and no sleep catching up to her. She says, "You must be fatigued from your journey. Why don't you rest, and join me later tonight for dinner?"

"Um, yes, alright—but the—_informing_—"

"Can wait until tomorrow, when both our nerves are slightly less frayed, don't you think?"

Prince Albert nods. He looks so uncertain, standing there in her library with his shoulders vaguely hunched. She walks to the doors and opens them. There is a guard outside. "Please escort Prince Albert back to his ship," she says loudly. Then, under her breath, back turned, "Keep an eye on him."

The guard nods, almost imperceptibly, and she hears the prince shuffling behind her. He slides past, almost brushing, laughing awkwardly, and then he's out in the hall, straightening his jacket and looking at her with those eyes. "I guess I'll see you at dinner, then," he says with a half-grin, and Elsa thinks, with drawn brows, that he might be trying to play it suave, cool—but then he trips. Elsa bites her lip. He rights himself quickly, delivers a stiff, formal bow, and continues down the hall, the guard at his heels.

Elsa heaves a sigh of relief.

* * *

"Anna, are you still ok?" Olaf whispers in her ear.

"No, Olaf, I think I'm dying."

"_Really_?"

"N_oo_," she replies with a grin, sitting up. She yawns, stretching deliciously. "I feel surprisingly well-rested. Concozits, who knew, right?"

"I don't know what that is." The tip of Olaf's carrot nose is sticking over the bed. "Elsa was talking to a strange man."

"She was talking to a man? Huh. That's a first."

The bedroom door opens. Shuts. There's her sister, standing uncertainly by the entrance, looking like she doesn't think she belongs in her own room, gripping her arms tightly to her sides. Anna puts her chin in her hands and says slyly, "A _man_, huh?"

"Olaf, what did you tell?" Elsa asks quickly, almost-snappishly.

"Just that you were talking to a stranger," Olaf says, smartly turning on the little round of his foot and sliding across the slightly damp floor, through puddles of skirts and bits of wood. "Is he gone?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid."

"You know what people say about strangers, right?" Anna says. "'Cause I do. I am like, so good at finding strangers who are dangers, it's like—ok, you know what, forget I ever started talking, let's just—Olaf, would you mind giving us a few minutes?"

"Aw!" The snowman clasps his hands, wearing a silly grin. "Sister bonding time! Of course, of course." He pushes past Elsa, patting her skirts, opening the door, and just before he closes it behind him he turns to whisper, "Take all the time you need."

It shuts. Anna can't help but laugh, rubbing at her eyes. Elsa asks, "How are you feeling?"

"Much better. If I wasn't such a clutz I wouldn'tve hit my head on the way down, but you know me—gotta make it the most painful thing possible," she finishes slowly. "Hey, Elsa? I'm sorry. About Kristoff. We weren't—_doing_ anything, I swear, I mean—" she clams up, remembering the floating dream she had been having before Olaf had woken her—Kristoff, leaning near her face, and then _his_ face had turned into _Hans'_ face and he had said _your sister is dead _and she couldn't even _sleep_ in peace, could she? Come on! "I mean we weren't doing anything," she finishes lamely.

"Oh, Anna. I know. You just have to—think about these things."

"I wish we didn't."

"Me, too."

"Do you think life would be easier if—if Mom and Dad were alive?"

Anna watches her sister look down at her bare hands. "I don't think it would be better."

"I miss them," she says on impulse. There's a long, drawn-out silence, and she squirms, wanting to run, to jump, to do anything—instead she focuses on the debris littering the floor of the room. "So what happened in here, huh? It's like a hurricane! I mean, hurricanes are awesome—it's not bad, I'm just giving you a hard time. I give myself a hard time. It's totally fine, we can get a new wardrobe. Are you ok?"

Elsa looks like she's contemplating something, head tilted, regarding her formal dresses on the floor. She says, "I'm going to say something. And I need you to be calm."

"Elsa, puh-_lease_," Anna says, rolling her eyes. "I'm practically the most calm person ever. I invented the word calm. One time, I even practiced calmness, and it was good—it was meditating or something, the Royal Steward—"

"There's a prince of the Southern Isles coming to dinner tonight."

"What, I'm sorry, I thought I heard prince of the Southern Isles," Anna laughs, tipping her head sideways and cleaning out her ear. When Elsa doesn't correct her—doesn't deny—"_A prince of the Southern Isles?_"

Obviously it wasn't _Hans_, but one of his _twelve brothers_ and she knows she should be a princess, be calm, be cool, be, like—collected, or something—but what she really wanted to do right this second was climb out of bed and go outside and find this prince and punch _him_ in the face too—which was probably totally and completely overreacting—ok, maybe not _totally and completely_, maybe like—just a _little_ bit overreacting—"Elsa, you have to tell him to leave!"

"I can't!" Elsa groans, and she hasn't heard her sister groan, much. It's a new, frustrated sound. "He was given bad directions. He was supposed to come for my coronation but was blown off course—he doesn't _know _about his brother."

"Wait. He doesn't know about Hans?"

Elsa shakes her head. "He only just got into port."

"Wait. You didn't _tell_ him about Hans?"

"I don't know how!" Elsa looks at her hands again, and Anna sits there, on the bed, and doesn't know _what_ to feel. If she never saw anyone from the Southern Isles again, it would be too soon. So maybe if she just didn't think about it for a few more hours—

"Come," she sniffs regally at last, settling back against one-half of Elsa's pillows and patting the bed next to her. "Sit."

"Anna, I—"

"Don't _Anna_ me. You can and you must. It's a sister's order."

Elsa passes over several dresses, the debris, and slowly, carefully, climbs onto the bed next to her. They lay side by side, looking up at that navy canopy that Anna is slowly starting to hate, and she remembers a time when they used to do this much oftener. She asks the canopy, "When was the last time you slept, huh?"

"I'm the queen."

"Just because you're the _queen_ doesn't mean you don't need _sleep_. Look, you just lie here," Anna turns on her side, and they could be little kids again, this was weird—"just lie down and get some rest, ok? And then you'll be all ready for dinner, where I promise to almost behave myself."

"You can't mention anything about his brother. I _will_ tell him, but it should be in a more controlled environment." Code for: with you not around.

"I am _so _controlled. Ok, don't look at me like that, so I'm _mostly _controlled. Ok, you know what, fine. Ok. I'll be on my best princess behavior." She doesn't say that she doesn't exactly know just how _good_ her best princess behavior was, but it had to be a start, right? That's what this was. "Just get some sleep."

"Anna?"

She pauses in twisting off the bed. "Yeah?"

"Will you just—can you—"

Anna looks across her nose. Her sister is there. There is her sister, so close, and nothing separating them, and they could be kids again. She kicks her feet back on the bed. "Yeah, you know, actually, I'm super tired still, do you mind if I just stay here a bit longer?"

Elsa smiles, and it's not almost. "I think that'd be ok."

Anna's smile is eating up her face. It shouldn't be allowed, to be this happy, when one of those ugly butt-face brothers was here. "Good."

Just a start.

* * *

"She froze the summer," the king muses.

Hans flexes his hands. "As I said." Dead winter—barely any light, barely any heat, a whole people starving and looking to him _and it had been wonderful_—

"Well, then. It seems I shall have to have a talk with Niels."

Hans shivers straight. "Why?"

"Don't worry yourself, baby brother. Some matters are simply beyond your control, despite your attempts otherwise." The king stands, and he turns. It's a familiar sight, the back of his head—Hans stares at the gruel in the corner. There is the smell of potatoes and meat going sour on the floor. "Tell me, Hans." The king cuts a regal figure, stock-straight, hands behind his back, turning, only just, enough so that Hans can make out the straight arrow-point of his nose in the torchlight. "Do I have your complete and utter cooperation?"

Hans licks his lips. He is eight again; there is blood on the floor, near his father's hand. Alfons isn't king yet. He is shoving him against the wall with the butt of his sword and saying _be quiet about this, you hear? Do you hear? Do I have your complete and utter cooperation?_

"Yes, your highness," Hans tells his brother's back. "Of course."

A sharp nod. "Good. I imagine you'll be out of that cell sometime tomorrow." Step, step, step, down the hall, and Hans wants him to go, wants to run him through the back, and if only things were that simple, if only he did not have to suffer eleven other fools between himself and the throne—"Oh, and Hans?"

He looks up, through the slatted bars of his cell. "Yes?"

"Don't disappoint me again."


	6. Chapter 6

**a/n: **and here we find my head canon for Hans depravity ooooh

please read and review :)

* * *

"So you're Prince Albert," Anna asks her piece of bread. "Prince Albert of the Southern Isles. A prince from those islands down south. That sort of prince."

Elsa turns slowly in her sister's direction, nostrils flaring. Anna continues to idly butter her bread. Warm, fluffy, golden. Good bread. The prince in question seems to be trying to determine which fork to plunge into his salad. The struggle, Anna thinks, is real.

She puts down her butter knife, leveling her gaze at the man across from her, bread floating to her mouth. There he sat, curling hair and freckled face, looking like he wanted to fade into the red upholstery. If it weren't for those eyes, Anna thinks, bread almost at her lips, she wouldn't peg him for a prince of the Southern Isles at all. As she watches him he glances up, and those eyes—_the same eyes, really, really higher power, it had to be_—Anna shoves the whole slice of bread into her mouth with a guilty, cheek-puffed smile in her sister's direction.

Prince Albert raises his coat sleeve. Anna, swallowing without chewing and barely passing air, notices the neat scrawl printed there—and a little diagram of a dinner plate, complete with napkin, forks, knives—before he lets his sleeve drop and hastily picks up the outermost fork.

"So are you feeling well-rested, Prince Albert?"

"Yes, your majesty, thank you," he replies through an open mouth, then flushes scarlet. His hand covers his mouth, he swallows, and Anna stares at him rather dumbly across the table. Where Hans had been elegant, smooth, graceful, _conniving and lying and scheming, the absolute jerk_—

She licks her lips, calms her breathing. More than anything, thinking about Hans made her embarrassed. But this guy—from the tips of his hair to the soles of his shoes, he did not, in any way, scream royalty. Maybe he'd been adopted or something—_but those eyes_—

"Are you sure you're a prin—"

"Anna!"

"—ivte?" she finishes, veering left. She glances at Elsa, who looks almost pleading, but really, what did her sister expect—twelve years of eating with the kitchen staff and she was suddenly expected to hold her mouth at dinner, come on—"A private in the army?"

"Uh, no, I'm—I'm not," he says to his dinner plate. "I have brothers in the army, though."

"Was Hans in the army?"

"Anna."

"I'm just _asking_. It's not like he could fight or anything, I mean I punched—"

"_Anna_."

"—a dog once. Wait. What?" She reaches quickly for her glass of water, but when she tips it back for a sip she finds it frozen solid in her glass. She glares at Elsa, but her sister's pursed lips speak, like, volumes, so she rolls her eyes, setting the glass back down.

This was _so _much harder than she thought it would be.

Especially with those _eyes_—

"Why don't you tell us about your brothers, Prince Albert?" Elsa asks politely.

No, Anna does not want to hear about those horrid people. She suspects the whole family is secretly psychotic. Also the guy across from her is probably just putting on his whole newborn lamb act, really—

"Well, Alfons is the oldest. The king. His twin brother, Lukas, is a general in the army, as is Marcel. There's, um, Stefan, who likes to write plays, and Josef and Rupert—also army—" Anna watches him. There isn't much of anything in his voice. He's holding up his fingers and listing them like cuts of meat. "Felix—well, he's—Felix is—gone." Gone? "And then Niels—he's the sorcerer," he directs the last at Elsa, and she nods, and Anna is lost. "Tomas and Viktor, also twins, and then Fredrik—he's off fighting with Marcel at the moment, or he'd be here too—and then me, and well. Then Hans."

"Yes, we know all about Hans," Anna mutters darkly into her salad.

"I hope he behaved himself?" Prince Albert looks up, smiling quickly, but it dies just as shortly. He coughs into his fork. "This is fantastic lettuce," he says, then winces.

Anna thinks that, really, there couldn't possibly be two more differenter siblings on earth. Then she looks at Elsa.

Well. _Maybe_ that was a bit of an overstatement.

She reaches for another slice of bread.

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock._

The door creaks open, and the room beyond smells of rot and ruin. The air is heavy, and cloying. One large picture window, at the far end, lets in the dying rays of sunlight, but it seems muted, and false. King Alfons stops in the doorway, lips tightening.

"Your majesty." A voice, from the corner. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Drop the formalities, Niels," he replies, stepping further into the gloom and letting the door fall shut behind him. Immediately he feels suffocated, pressed into the ground.

"Merely following protocol, brother."

"Of course."

"Tell me, how go your studies?"

"Well."

There is a bird—a crow—pinned to one table, and it is still thrashing, in the midst of its death throes. "Excellent. I had an inquiry of you." He is getting an awful headache, a tribal pounding in his temples.

"Yes?"

"I am in need of the best way to eliminate a threat."

He catches the white flash of Niels' teeth in the muted, dying twilight. "Ah," is all he says.

Alfons' jaw tightens. Niels was not Hans, to be goaded by fear into cooperation. He was slippery as an eel, and twice as smart. "Of course, your aid will not go unrewarded. Gold, jewels—"

"A seat on the council, perhaps?"

"There are no empty seats."

"Well. I'm sure we can arrange something, don't you think?"

"Yes," Alfons replies. "Of course."

"Swear on something you value."

He pauses. "I swear on my kingship."

"Good. Now, what kind of threat are we facing, so that I may find my footing?"

"Ice," Alfons says. "We are facing ice."

* * *

"_Ugharhghh!_"

Anna kicks into the stables like some sort of demented hurricane, the door slamming against the wall and her figure outlined by the only lamp glowing near the door. Kristoff, still waking up from his afternoon snooze, still trying to get his bearings, sits up abruptly in his hay-pile and manages, "What's on fire?"

"If being a princess means sitting through awkward dinners with brothers of your sister's almost-killer then no _thank you_."

"What?" Kristoff rubs one of his eyes. His hat slides from his face to his chin to his chest. Sven blinks blearily next to him, smacking his reindeer lips. "Brother's killer sister—"

"No, a brother of my sister's almost-killer, keep up, Kristopher."

"Uh, yeah." This hits him slowly, like a wave. "Wait. What?"

"_Exactly_ my point." She falls down dramatically to the hay next to him, all bare-shoulders and neck, not caring that she wrinkles her fancy green dress. One of her silk sleeves slips down around her upper arm. He swallows, trying not to notice the freckles dotting her collarbone and it was _really too early for this_, only it wasn't early, it was late, wasn't it—then it was _really too late for this_—

"Slow down," he coughs, even though she isn't moving or speaking or anything. "What's going on?"

"Prince _Albert_," she says, making her voice go all snooty, "came to dinner." She's sinking into the hay, but she doesn't move to stop it, just stares at the ceiling of the stables and spits stray pieces of straw out of her mouth. A strand of hair had come undone in her fit, and it's sitting across her forehead. He reaches forward to push it back, and then thinks _no, don't do that_, and then thinks _stop—no, go—no—_so his hand stutters on the way there and eventually falls behind him.

"Should I know who that is?" he asks. Then he winces. How much more _I'm not royalty_ proof did he need?

"He's Prince _Hans'_ brother."

He sits up, fully and completely aware. "Your sister let him into the palace?"

"Apparently he missed the coronation by _accident_, but I could see through that in an Arendellian minute. He comes on with his innocent farm boy routine—"

"Into the palace?"

"Kristoff, please." Anna's eyes find his own. "Keep up."

"Well, does he know? What his brother did?" he asks quietly. The sword against the queen's back had been horrible, terrible, but it wasn't—it wasn't so much _that_ that had kept him up this past week, but images of Anna stumbling through a blizzard, hands freezing, arms freezing, heart freezing—

"Not yet. Elsa says she's going to tell him." Anna sighs, flopping her hands to her sides, like she's making a hay-angel. One of them hits his chest. "I just don't know. I love having the gates open, but it makes things more—complicated. But hey! At least I have you!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know. This," she twists on her side, looking up at him. He swallows; the only thing keeping him grounded is Sven's chewing. He licks his lips. He wants to say _this is so far from being uncomplicated_, but she's lying there and he can't, so he doesn't. Just settles down next to her, hands behind his head. He wants to ask _what is this_, but can't.

"Well, he'll go away soon, right?" he says instead. "I don't like having anyone from the Southern Isles anywhere near you. I mean the palace. Anywhere near Arendelle."

"Oh, Kristopher. You really _do_ care."

"Shut up."

Anna grins.

"Kitchen is running low on ice," he mumbles to the ceiling. "I'm going to have to make a trip, soon."

"Can I come with you?"

"After last time? No."

"Psh. Whatever. You're missing out on my beautiful ice harvesting skills. I can harvest so much ice. This much ice. Are you looking? Look at me, this much ice. Kristoff, look."

In response he throws some hay at her face. She sputters as it lands in her mouth and hair and retaliates by launching herself at him. He doesn't exactly know, as she collapses across his chest, what it's supposed to accomplish, until she grabs a fistful by his head and shoves it into his eyes. "_Holy—"_

He grabs her arms. One tiny wrist, in each of his big hands. She's breathless with laughter. He's just breathless. The lantern light glows warmly, and the horses snort in the stalls. She rests above him like a hummingbird, and he realizes that she practically _is_ one, never landing, never stopping. He can count the freckles on her nose.

He's going to ask, _may I kiss you_, but she bends down, her lips ghosting over his own. She moves her head, biting her lip. He sets her hands on his chest and lets go of those thin wrists and places his fingers on the side of her face, pads gliding over her cheeks, reaching the smooth, almost-red of her hair. He says, "Uncomplicated, huh?"

"So uncomplicated," she replies with a quick grin. "Like, it's simple. I want to kiss you. You want to kiss me. So we should just—"

Kristoff bends upward and captures her lips. The sound she makes fades from indignant to pleased, landing somewhere in the back of her throat. Her hands fist in his shirt, then travel up his chest—it's all so _new_, he thinks rather headily, this feeling of another person, lips moving against his own, hands and feet and—most importantly—_heartbeat_—he breaks away, trailing kisses down her throat, to the smooth, freckled plain of her shoulder, and she whispers, "Kristoff."

He pauses. Looks up. There is a heat growing in his belly. She's there, above him, outlined by the lamplight, hay in hair and braid disheveled. There is something unreadable around her eyes, and he thinks with a sudden fear, a sudden clenching of his chest, that he's done something wrong—but his hands he kept at her waist, and his mouth above her chest and—

"I'm tired," she says quickly, with an unconvincing yawn. "Gotta get back on that normal sleep pattern, ha." She sits up. Her body heat leaves him. He tries to regain his breathing, and his composure.

"Sure. Yeah, of course."

"It's just—"

She pauses. He says, "Yeah?"

"Nothing." Anna smiles. She leans forward and pecks him on the cheek. She whispers, "Goodnight," in his ear. Then she darts from the stables, leaving the door to slam behind her.

"What did I do?" Kristoff groans, looking to Sven. The reindeer shrugs. "Beats me," his friend says. "Maybe you're just a horrible kisser."

Kristoff makes a strangled sort of noise and flops back onto the hay. "Do you remember when ice was my life?"

Sven nods sympathetically.

"Ice. My life. Why is." Kristoff gestures to the door, putting his hat on his head and contemplating a cold shower and deciding that he needs to leave again.

And soon.

* * *

"You'll have to forgive my sister, Prince Albert," Elsa says softly. They're standing on the balcony outside of the dining hall, in the warm, balmy night of summer, and the stars are blinking on, one by one. "She recently suffered a head injury," she continues at a deadpan.

The prince is stiff straight next to her, hands behind his back. She keeps hers tucked at her sides, fighting the urge to summon a cooling breeze. He asks, "Was it bad?" Then, "Wait, no, I mean—there's nothing to forgive." He looks across his nose at her and smiles. "Really."

She blinks and looks straight, out over the fjord, and the glistening waters. She can just make out the masts of some of the ships. She wonders which one is the prince's. She steps closer to the railings, itching for that breeze, and sets her hands on their flat surface. Her stomach is rolling. Dinner had not sat.

"Queen Elsa? If I—if I may," Prince Albert starts, approaching next to her. "Perhaps we should not wait until tomorrow. Perhaps you should tell me what my brother did now, so that I can apologize for him."

"What?" Elsa starts. When she looks, the prince is staring at her seriously with those eyes, blue-ice-white—what were they? She had not taken him for perceptive. She had not taken herself for so loose. She is not ready for this. She turns back to the fjord. "Whatever could you—"

"Did you know," the prince begins, mimicking her position, "that he was once convinced he would marry the princess of France? He sent her love tokens, bits of things. Then one day we heard the news that she was to marry the prince of Albion, and I found him in the servant's stairwell, breaking a man's nose." He grabs the thumb of his left hand with his right, looking straight ahead. "So please, tell me. I cannot—" he attempts a smile, but it dies. His hand itches toward his sleeve. "I cannot bear the wait any longer."

"I shall be frank, then," Elsa begins slowly, imagining Hans and the crack of bone. "Forgive me, for I do not wish to insult."

"Please, continue."

So polite. So formal. She says, "Hans attempted to enter an engagement with my sister. After she returned—" Elsa pauses, unsure how to continue. "She was hurt. Hans left her for dead, and claimed me a traitor."

"Why?" The prince's rigid posture breaks. He blinks at her, lips parting, says, "I can't see you being a traitor." Then he coughs uncomfortably, looking away.

"I had frozen Arendelle in eternal winter. On accident," she amends quickly. "But frozen, nonetheless. He tried to kill me." It's such a short, simplified version, that she finds herself quickly detaching from it. It seems unreal, as if it had happened to someone else, and not to her.

"Queen Elsa," Prince Albert says seriously, turning to look at her. "I'm sorry. It doesn't—seem like a lot, does it? But I am. Truly."

"He should be back in your kingdom by now."

"I'm certain the king is taking care of him. Alfons has always held sway over him," he finishes, almost to himself.

She feels as if a weight has lifted from her chest. It had been brief, quick; she had done it, she had spoken the words, and the man next to her had not turned ugly with rage. He looked rather lost, staring over the city, shoulders slightly hunched, like he wanted to be invisible. She says, "Thank you for your apology," because now what?

The prince rubs the back of his neck. "I only wish there was more I could do. Could say. I don't—I knew it was bad, but I didn't—I don't understand."

"Power," she replies, touching the pads of her fingers together. "What's there to understand?"

The prince says, just as quietly, "I will get out of Arendelle as soon as possible. I know if—if I was—if the positions were reversed," he finally finds the right words, "I couldn't stand my face. I'm surprised that you have born it so well for so long." His grin is self-deprecating.

"Is it your ship?" She will not deny, and say that is not what she wants.

"Problems with the mast, and the hull. The storm did a number on us." His eyes—those eyes—are distant. "Well, Queen Elsa, I hope—just—rest assured, Hans will be punished. I will confirm whatever report has reached the Southern Isles about him." He turns to leave.

She can't help it. She asks, "Why do you believe me so easily?"

He turns, halfway to the door into the dining hall, where the guards stand, always watching. His face is deadly serious, outlined by the light inside.

"Because it's Hans."

And he leaves.

* * *

This is how it had happened.

_He could not sleep, and he went to the library. His father was there, and the fire was going. _This is how it had happened.

_His father had said, come, son. Sit. You can't sleep?_

_No, daddy._

_And his father had gotten the chessboard from off one of the shelves, and set up the game. He had said, this game is not about power. Or strength. It is about cunning. The fire had crackled in the grate. He controlled the white pieces, and his father controlled the black. The pawn could move two on the first try. _

_He liked taking the pieces. His father said, no, think ahead, but it was too tempting to grab them right away. His father almost had him in checkmate. The door opened. The door opened and his brother was there, and the door shut. His father said, Alfons, what—_

_Alfons, what—_

_Alfons, what—_

_It was not a clean death. It was not a pretty death. There was blood and it got on the chessboard. His brother was throwing him against the far wall, shouting, you shouldn't have been in here, you shouldn't—he was shoving him against the wall with the butt of his sword and saying, be quiet about this, you hear? Do you hear? Do I have your complete and utter cooperation?_

Hans wakes up in a cold sweat, his stomach aching. He dry heaves over the side of his cot. He had not had that dream in a long, long time.

He lies back. Closes his eyes. Waits for sleep.

(_And then Alfons had flicked over the black king on the chessboard and said, this is how we gain power. And if his brother could do it, so could he. It was all right, if his brother could do it. Daddy, daddy. It was all right.)_

Waits for sleep, in his dingy cell.

Waits.


	7. Chapter 7

**a/n: **it's a long one. thank you for the alerts/favs/reviews! i read them all and i love them all and they keep me writing (i'm just sorry i can't respond to all of them!) :) so please, keep reading and reviewing!

(also merry christmas and happy holidays!)

* * *

It's a morning that belongs at the beginning of summer, and not at the end, a day more spring than fall. Elsa looks at the bright blue sky through the lead windowpanes, drumming her index finger against her thigh. She can barely feel it through the heavy velvet of her dress; with each _tap_, a single snowflake floats down to her feet. In her dream, Hans had stood over her, and broken her nose.

Elsa shakes her head, letting the warm light wash over her, and sighs, reservedly and through her nose. She turns from the window, the waking city, the gleaming fjord, and continues down the hall. The door to Anna's room is still shut. She pauses before it, putting her ear to the door. She hears a muffled snore and smiles, small and bright. Then she moves on.

The hall of portraits stretches endlessly before her. She takes it at a clipped walked, ignoring the accusing eyes, the slim mouths, nearly sagging with relief when she reaches the library, white door swinging open, white door swinging shut. It was early, and the servants had not yet done their rounds. The window was closed, the fire out. She waves her hand, and a chilly breeze slowly pushes the glass open. The faint ringing of bells and the shouts of merchants float up to her.

Elsa moves to her desk. There's the missive. It seems silly, that she would not open it now, after what she had managed last night. She settles in the high-backed chair, against the purple plush seat, and can see her father, sitting in the same position, watching her placidly as she opens the door, adjusts her gloves.

Elsa takes the missive in her bare hands and breaks the seal.

_To HRH, Queen Elsa of Arendelle,_

_There is no precedent for moving forward from the severity of my brother's actions, but I can only hope that we can—and will, indeed—move forward. Please accept my humblest apologies, and please accept the kindest wishes of my ambassadors, Viktor and Tomas, two of my brothers, whom I send on my behalf to help us ensure peace after this horrible event. Know that that is all I wish for. _

A large, flourishing signature, then: _King Alfons of the Southern Isles_.

The paper turns to frost around her fingertips. Elsa can only think _no_. She does not wish to entertain more brothers. She is content to continue as if the Southern Isles do not exist, and she is quite sure that her sister is, too. She looks out the window, to the harbor.

The white door opens. The white door shuts.

* * *

She wakes up freezing, curled to one side of her bed. There's a persistent sort of ache starting in her chest and reaching up her shoulders, a dull throbbing beginning near her heart. She groans. Her mouth tastes like hay.

_Yuck_.

She smacks her lips together, sitting up with a yawn. Goose pimples run up her arms, and she checks—but no, the window is shut, and there's no ice on the floor, and she isn't looking at that horribly navy canopy. Everything is slightly disorganized and very hers. The pillow Kristoff had been using is still lying on the ground.

She doesn't _know_. She doesn't know a lot of things and part of her is saying, sure, go ahead, tally forth, and part of her is saying, woah, you remember what happened last time, right, with the door and the jerk and the _I already have,_ you remember that, right? That could happen again! And the two parts of her are duking it out, but they're both, like, really good fighters, so it doesn't—it's not—

And throw in the wild card that she does, well, _like_ hanging out with him—a lot—

Anna swings her feet around the bed and plants them on the cold floor, shivering from her legs up. The ache is less, now; enough that it sits on the edges of things and she can almost completely ignore it. She walks to her wardrobe and puts on long sleeves, and a heavy skirt, taming her hair into something almost acceptable. Outside the hall is empty, the sun streaming morning-blue through the leaded windows. Anna skids down on her socks, sliding into the hall of portraits, running into the library door. She opens it, expecting to see her sister perched behind the great mahogany desk with a cool gaze, like their father used to wear, but instead it's empty. She frowns.

Kristoff _wasn't _Hans, and would never be Hans, and the great big part of her brain that recognized that really _did_ recognize that, but there was also that part of her that didn't want to be embarrassed, or fooled; that suddenly had no idea what love was despite years of seeing it—well, at least in paintings, right?

She slides back the way she's came, leaving the white door swinging open-shut behind her, careening into the hall of portraits. She loses her footing and trips in her haste, sprawling with an _oof_ and an _ow_ onto the hard floor. She gets up, rubbing her head and wincing, and there it is.

Her parents look serene.

They had loved each other, right?

It was suddenly really incredibly important that she know—

She pushes into the outer hall, throwing open the door to Elsa's room as she does, but it's empty, the wardrobe still mangled and dismantled. Past that, down the stairs, and there was—"Gerda! Gerda, have you seen Elsa?"

"No, I—"

" 'Kay, thanks, bye!" she wheels past, jumping onto the railing of the curved staircase like she had a hundred times before. Down she slides. It was important that she _know_.

"Kai!"

"Your highness?" the man starts, crinkling the scroll he's holding and scattering some of the servants gathered, getting ready for the day's jobs, as she sails off the stairs and into the nearest suit of armor. She picks herself up. "Have you seen Elsa?"

He frowns, clasping his hands behind his back. "Now that I think about it, I have not."

Anna groans in frustration, because she just really needed to _know,_ and some advice maybe about Kristoff, about how she should feel, because _how should she_—

"The queen?" There's a guard by the door. She doesn't recognize him. Probably one of the new batch, courtesy of the open gates. "She took a small contingent down to the harbor."

"The harbor?" Anna frowns. "Huh. That's weird."

"Is it urgent, princess?" Kai asks, fixing the scroll. "I can arrange for you to be accompanied—"

"No. Thank you, though," she smiles, grabbing her left hand with her right. "I'll just—I'm going—the stables."

And this time, she walks.

* * *

"Queen Elsa!" someone shouts.

"Your majesty," a man with heavy brows and the look of a blacksmith bows as she passes. She gives a reserved smile. A nod of her head to someone else. A small, almost-wave of her hand.

"It's the queen!" another voice floats to her, from behind, maybe—she can't be sure. The missive is burning a hole in her bag and her bare hands are itching to be covered. There's too many eyes, too many things that could go wrong. An icy breeze swirls the skirt around her feet, but the two guards—one on either side of her, and slightly behind—don't seem to notice.

There was a heady freedom, here; one that reminded her of mountaintops.

They cross the small square to the wood-fronted harbor, where the great ships sway in a gentle breeze on loose, calm waters. Not a cloud in sight. She spies several flags—a sun, emblazoned on a purple background; a tri-colored, elongated cross; the white of a neutral merchant—but none with the crest of the royal family of the Southern Isles.

"Your majesty!" a rough, weathered voice proclaims. "What a surprise!"

She turns. Stamping towards her is a rail-thin man, skin dark and sun worn, eyes sharp and bright, wearing a long coat embroidered with gold and blue and a triangle hat with a jaunty feather. He stops, respectfully, several feet away, this harbormaster who had overseen port since her father's reign. She's aware of a crowd gathering in the square behind her, pointing, staring—_the queen, the queen_—

The breeze grows.

"Master Olin," she says, aware that she's wearing her ever-present smile, small and polite. "I'm sorry for the unexpected call—"

"Your majesty is always welcome at port," he cries with a spread of his arms to indicate the gathered ships. "Now, how may I be of service?"

"I'm looking for Prince Albert's ship."

"Ah, the Southern Isles, yes." Olin takes a step closer, then two. The guards stiffen. The harbormaster lowers his voice and says, almost conspiratorially, "We've been keepin' the ship under higher surveillance, after…events previous. It's undergoin' mighty repairs." He points to a ship farthest down the docks, where men are swarming over ropes and railings. One of the masts is bent sideways. Her stomach clenches.

"How long, until it is sea worthy?" she asks.

"A week, mayhaps?" The harbormaster sighs, scratching his chin.

Elsa nods, the estimate making her stomach fall. She did not have a week, not if she wanted to forego the visitation of these—_ambassadors_. Which she did, wholeheartedly. "Thank you, Master Olin." She's about to continue down the dock, towards the ship in question, but pauses, just before she takes the first step. "And how is everything else?" she asks slowly.

"Well, your majesty," Olin replies with a sharp grin. "Thank you for the inquiry."

She nods, as she always does, the small, almost-smile on her lips, before clasping her hands in front of her and continuing down the dock. Her back is rigid, stock-straight. There are too many people and too many ways this could go wrong—and then she is suddenly thrust back into the present, the remembrance that anything that could go wrong already did, and that these people were looking only for a queen. She looks up, to the foundations of the city, and there they are gathered—young, old, tall, small. She waves and they smile broadly.

"The queen just waved at me!" one of the younger boys shouts.

_I can do this_, Elsa thinks to herself, turning back. The ship is nearing. _I am queen_, she thinks, even as her stomach flops dully, deadly. Beyond the eager, hungry gazes of her people there were these ships, standing tall, standing silent. She could not face ships, just as she could not face the portrait in the hall back in the palace. Two weeks, they had said.

She is close enough to make out the faces, now, of the men scurrying across the deck, up the ropes, across the mast. They were fierce, as weather-beaten as Olin, with sharp, shrewd eyes. Sailors were a different breed, a kind she rarely crossed paths with, a kind she did not understand. They looked the type to not be impressed by title. She extends her hand. "Wait here, please," she orders the guards.

"But your majesty—"

"I said, wait here."

They stop walking, but she does not, her shoes clapping a nervous, staccato rhythm across the wood beneath her feet. The ship is beyond reckoning in size, in shape; she's intimidated by it. Two weeks. She cranes her neck, leery of stepping on the gangplank. There is frost crawling from her sensible shoes to the water sloshing gently beneath her. "Excuse me?" she calls.

The man nearest her, and above, starts. He looks to his left, then right. Then he finally looks down. He catches her quickly in his gaze, and Elsa can see it, in the way his large mouth crooks sideways, in the incredulous brow, in the thick nose—he's about to say something he will regret. The only thing that saves him is a quick second look—the white hair, she thinks; perhaps the crown. Either way his mouth slams shut, and he straightens from his lean on the railing with a sharp bow. "Your majesty."

"Is Prince Albert aboard?" She did not want to get on that ship, she would not get on that ship.

"No, your majesty. He went into town 'bout an 'our past."

"Thank you," she nods stiffly. _Clack, clack, clack,_ her sensible shoes protest, all the way down the dock, frost following stiffly in her wake, testing the waters near the hulls of the ships, wind swirling, temperature falling.

Two weeks.

* * *

He's not in the stables. He's in the courtyard, hitching his sleigh into a wagon, checking Sven's tack. Anna bites her lip, grabbing her left hand with her right and then deciding that no, she needed to be doing—princess things, like finding her sister, maybe, or directing the footmen, or setting the table, or just—_something_—

"Oh, hey, there you are."

"Here I am," she laughs guilty, pausing mid-turn and swinging back around. Through the open gates she can make out the market, the edges of the flower stand; can hear the water lapping underneath the bridge. Looking at Kristoff makes the ache in her chest come back full-force. She begins to rub her shoulder in slow circles, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

"Aren't you hot?" he asks, frowning, so that he looks like a surly old homeless man in his falling-apart-tunic.

"Why, yes I am, thanks for noticing," she grins, waggling one eyebrow and giving a sway of her hips. The whole things ends when she sticks her foot out a tad too far and the nearest footman—carrying a basket for market or something—falls to the ground. "Oops! Sorry, here—" she helps him back to his feet, no longer feeling sophisticated. Or full of grace.

"Nice," Kristoff deadpans through half-lidded eyes. He picks up a satchel and tosses it into the back of his wagon. "No, I mean, aren't you _hot_ hot?"

"Are you saying I'm not hot?"

"I'm not—that's not what I—you're wearing winter gear in summer."

"First off, you should see yourself," she says, pointing to his tunic, the heavy pants, the curved boots. "Second off, it is practically _the end_ of summer."

"I never brought it up," Kristoff says under his breath, ignoring her, "the feeling cold. But are you really? All the time?"

"Why would I lie about it?" she asks lightly.

"You were kinda having brain swelling when you told me—"

"I'm not lying," Anna says, looking to the side. She drops her hold on her shoulder. "It's nothing though, ok? I'm also not lying when I say I will single-handedly destroy what you love if you tell Elsa. She has enough to worry about as it is."

"You can't destroy yourself," Kristoff says, pursing his lips, and then he seems to _realize_ what he just said, because he turns beet red. Anna is still hearing it echo up her brain stem. It makes her feel strange, odd; makes her feel scared. So she does the best thing to do in this situation—the _only_ thing—

She swings her arm forward into a friendly, manly pat on Kristoff's arm and says, "Be safe. Don't make me come save you again."

"That'd be more trouble than it'd be worth," he says shortly. His frown is still there, his brows drawn down. He's closing up, like a frostbitten flower. Anna, worrying her lip, thinks this could all have been avoided if Elsa had not decided to play hooky for the afternoon.

"Hey," she says softly. He turns towards her and she pecks him on the cheek. "I mean it. Please."

He crosses his heart. "Come on, Sven."

With that, they begin to pad out of the courtyard, leaving Anna confused, because she definitely did not just want to be _friends_ with Kristoff, but how could she be sure of—sure of love, after—

After open doors?

"Why can't things just be _simple_," she groans.

* * *

"Oh, no, he got me! And with this last, I—_die_!"

Elsa hears laughter, bright and shining in the morning light, bubbling up from between the buildings. There is a small alley, shaded by the straight-edged lines of the building next to it, but beyond she can see another courtyard—an inner square, framed by houses on all sides. She can just make out the sparkling edges of a fountain in its center, can just hear the babble of the water over the cries of delighted children. She makes the slight movement with her hands again.

"Your majesty," the guard on her left says softly, "we cannot leave—"

"I would rather you remain right here, so as you do not frighten the children." She cannot have her guards think her weak. She is not. As if to remind them, a chilly breeze floats down from the distant mountains. The guard to her right says, "Your majesty."

She nods brusquely.

Her footsteps rebound over the dusty alley. It isn't decaying, just dirty, with a few stagnant puddles lying beneath drainage pipes and a few scattered crates. Elsa grips her hands together tightly, circumnavigating the dangers. This was a world she was not used to, and the frost arcing out from her feet knew it.

She enters the square, squinting against the reemergence of the sun. She blinks, having to reacquaint herself with the light before she is able to look around.

There is laundry hanging from lines up above, a few shirts scattered over the fountain. There seem to be other entrances to this square, across from her, and to her right; a tavern is at the far left end, and she can her shouts from within, despite the early hour. Two young boys, and one young girl, race past, feet clacking over the stone; the girl is holding a wooden sword. A third boy is perched atop a pile of crates, and he is shouting, "Help! Save me! Help!"

And then there is more pounding—bigger, stronger footsteps—and Prince Albert's rather springy form races past at a full sprint. He notices her at the last second, and attempts to turn, but his feet get tangled beneath him and he falls backwards to the ground, cracking his head on the pavement and causing her to wince. There is a toy sword shoved beneath one shoulder.

"Are you alright?" she gasps.

"Queen Elsa!" Prince Albert sits up immediately, looking no worse for wear, as if he fell on a regular basis and was, by now, used to it. "I didn't—how are—"

"Die!" the girl yells, lunging like a wolf and landing on top of his chest, pressing him backward. She holds her sword to his throat.

"I yield!" he cries with a laugh.

"You _ninny_!" one of the boys the girl had been chasing shouts, coming round to shake her shoulder. "You can't keep right on playin', not when the _queen's _around."

"Queen ain't 'round," the girl replies, keeping her sword still. "Just this traitor who tried to kidnap the prince!"

"Help me, help!" cries the boy perched on the boxes.

Elsa can't help it—she feels a laugh beginning. She quickly covers her mouth with her hand.

"She's right _there_, look—Mum's freaking out!"

And sure enough, the women doing laundry by the fountain were beginning to bow, and one was shouting, "_Petter_! Show some respect!"

The boy descends the pile of boxes and tips into a low, clumsy bow. "Your majesty."

"You won this round, Klara," Prince Albert says, gently sitting up and lifting her beneath the shoulders. He sets her back on the ground. "I'm afraid I must put our battle to the death on hold for a moment."

Elsa feels a tug on her skirt. She looks down, startled. A second boy is there, thumb firmly in his mouth. "Why, hello," she smiles smally. He has large, blue eyes, like Anna had. "How are you?"

"Are you really the queen?" he asks around his thumb.

She nods.

He takes his thumb from his mouth and tugs on her skirt again. Elsa has not been around children in a very, very long time, but it is coming back to her now, the ease of speech, the wide-eyed wonder; she gets to her knees, not caring about the dirt that would attach itself to her skirts. The boy motions for her to get closer, and closer, and finally he whispers in her ear, "Can you do the magic?"

_Magic_. Not curse. _Magic_.

But then she thinks of her smashed wardrobe, her sister turned to ice, those years of not being able to hug—to touch—to feel—

She nods slowly. Almost smiles. "Are you ready?"

He nods.

She finds herself looking up at Prince Albert. Just a quick glance, really, but he's watching her with a sort of lopsided grin, eyes bright. She opens her hands for something to do, and feels the cold building in her veins, down to the tips of her fingers. Snowflakes spark between them, coalescing into a bright-white ball. She looks up at the other children—Petter, walking from his tower, Klara, regarding her shrewdly—and throws it into the air. It bursts. Gentle flakes begin to drift down. The kids shriek. Even the adults gasp. Prince Albert looks at the snow that lands on his nose and the loose ends of his curling hair like he has never seen something so amazing in his life. Elsa coughs, and stands, watching the fun begin.

Still a curse, she thinks.

"You're amazing," the prince says, and his voice cracks. "I mean—no, that's not—" his hand itches for his sleeve. "How did you find me?"

"I asked the harbormaster, a man on your boat, the flower salesman, the blacksmith, and the baker."

"Ah. I left, a, ah, paper trail, then?"

"More or less," she almost smiles. "What are you doing here?"

"Having a rousing game of Save the Prince. I do believe that Klara will one day join your royal guard," he smiles, and it is not almost. It reaches his eyes. He has little crows' feet at the corners. "Arendelle is truly beautiful, and the people are—" he stops. Elsa realizes with a start that she does not really know what the people are like. They simple _are_. "But I'm rambling—I—I thought you wouldn't want to see me."

His shoulders are hunched slightly, his nervousness back. The snow continues to drift in gentle waves from a blue sky. She itches to raise ice palaces. She feels bad for wishing him gone, but then remembers.

Anna had said—had told her what _he _had said, extinguishing that fire, and it had been—_Elsa, as heir, would've been preferable, but nobody was getting anywhere with her_—

And if they had sent this unassuming boy, to—to _get somewhere_?

She pulls the missive from her person and holds it out, arm extended stiffly. "I received this from King Alfons. I have drawn up this," she pulls another letter forward, to rest beside the first, "with my response, but I wish for you to relay it in person, as well. King Alfons does not need to send ambassadors. I wish for time to regain stability. That is all." Her voice is formal, clipped. Prince Albert takes both letters and motions to the first, with the broken seal of the Southern Isles.

"May I?" he asks.

She nods.

He skims the contents with a growing frown. "Viktor and Tomas would not make good ambassadors to the Ends of the Earth, much less Arendelle," he mutters. Again, Elsa thinks she is not suppose to hear. "Does this mean he already sent them?"

"I don't know," she sighs, grasping her elbows and hugging her arms tightly to her chest. Many of the occupants of the tavern were beginning to spill into the square, noticing the impromptu snowstorm. Petter and Klara were laughing happily. The little boy with his thumb in his mouth was blinking in awe.

"You don't want them to be sent," Prince Albert says, folding the letter. "Truth is, _I _wouldn't want them to be sent. I probably shouldn't—should not have said that."

"Estimate on your ship's repairs place it at being complete in about a week. If I furnish you with a ship, and you take your crew—"

"Queen Elsa, if you wanted me gone, you only had to ask," he grins, but it slides off his face quickly. "Sorry, bad—look, I don't want you wasting the money to furnish a new ship, and I couldn't return that money to you until I got home. And by that time, there's no guarantee that I would catch the ambassadors. I think with—with all due respect, that the best thing to do now is wait. I'll be out of your hair quickly, I promise."

"I don't want you out of my—"

"Queen Elsa," the prince smiles. With his hair ruffled, and his crooked nose, he looks like a stable boy, she thinks. "You don't have to lie to make me feel better. I'll talk to my crew, and see if I can get them to speed things up." He tucks both letters into his coat. "And rest assured, your message will be delivered."

"Thank you," she nods. _Elsa, as heir, would've been preferable. _She cannot figure out Prince Albert, and she does not want to, does not want association with the Southern Isles. Elsa's eyes skim the square once more. She had placed the prince under surveillance, had she not? And yet he had easily given the guards the slip; had just as easily spoken to several of the townspeople; had wandered where he pleased. Unacceptable, she thinks, looking at those eyes of his. They do not belong in his face. "Prince Albert, I think it best if you remain to your ship, for the interim."

He opens his mouth. For a beat, Elsa thinks he is going to protest. His eyes are darting to the children, to the women by the fountain, to the tavern—then back to her. Those eyes. He nods stiffly, straightening his back, clasping his hands in front of him. "As you wish, your majesty."

She nods smartly. She would send a contingent down to the harbor, to Olin; they would be charged with watching his ship. She begins to turn away.

"And if—if they do come," his voice stops her, and she turns back. "Viktor and Tomas—the ambassadors—just—I'll be more than happy to deal with them on your behalf."

Elsa nods again, mechanically.

Somehow, the thought does not help her to feel any more relieved.

* * *

_Step. _

_Step. _

_Step_.

He does not open his eyes, clasping his hands over his stomach. He is peaceful. He is calm.

He is planning.

_Step. _

_Step. _

_Step. _

"Prince Hans?"

"Yes?" he replies, without opening his eyes. He listens. There's the jangle of the jailor's keys, the metallic _clank_ as it slides home in the lock, the twist, the turn. The creaking of the door of his cell as it is pulled back.

Planning. He is planning.

"You're free to go."

Hans' grin could cut steel, could level mountains. His grin could kill fathers.

His grin could slaughter brothers.

"Perfect," he says.


	8. Chapter 8

**a/n: **boom, baby

* * *

"Ah, there you are. Don't just stand there gaping, lest you want to turn to stone."

Hans swallows thickly, forcing his face blank. He gives a half-smile, cool, collect. "And can you do that?"

"Perhaps," Niels deadpans from the shady corner of his quarters. "Would you like to find out?"

Hans' smile hardens around the edges. "I wouldn't want to strain your delicate sensibilities."

"Not even five minutes out of prison," the king says. He had not seen him sitting there, near the fire, drinking his tea and pressing his lips, as if somehow drinking tea in Niels' room was the most normal occurrence in the world. It wasn't. Hans can count on one hand the number of times he's glimpsed the inside of this room; twenty-three years, and he had yet to enter it.

He does so now. A foot behind the threshold, a foot over it. Immediately he _feels_ it, this atmosphere, oppressive and heavy, like a kick to his side. He's got a headache waiting to spring at the edges of his thoughts; a wish to be back in that dingy little cell, with his three-day old gruel and his sagging cot. Niels says, absentmindedly, "Close the door."

Hans kicks it shut with more violence than is strictly necessary. He feels as if the air has been sucked out of his lungs. There is a crow, pinned by the wings to one table, and its beak is stretched unnaturally wide. Half of its entrails are spread like a twisted watercolor across the wood grain. He purses his lips.

"Tea, Hans?"

"Yes, thank you." He walks to the fireside, and settles himself gingerly in the empty seat across from the king, almost believing that it would swallow him whole. It doesn't. It's a perfectly normal chair. Still, he perches on the edges of it, waiting to fly; the headache is coming on full force behind his eyes.

"Sugar?"

"No, thank you."

Hans grabs the china cup before his brother can hand it to him and takes a delicate sip. He is beginning to understand why he had never been in these rooms before; there is a tightness around the king's mouth. He would not be in here, either, Hans realizes, with a wicked sort of satisfaction, if he did not need something—_large_.

"The rest of the kingdom does not know of your small internment; we shall keep that matter a secret," the king begins. Hans hears a dying caw, a raspy sort of cry that sounds suspiciously like a crow. He forces himself to remain still, erect; remain facing the king. "I have set Niels to work on a solution to the ice problem."

Hans can't help it; he laughs. He has to set his cup down for fear of upsetting the tea. "The ice problem?"

"Indeed," the king replies, arching one eyebrow. "Is this amusing to you?"

"She practically condemned her entire kingdom, and that was _before_ she could control it. Arendelle is lost to us—"

"Arendelle is ideally situated for trade. It is large, with a thriving ice business, and its natural resources are without compare. Do you honestly imagine I would simply give up?" the king's eyes are glittering, dark. He pauses, settling back in his chair and disrupting a stack of books near his feet, drawing Hans' attention; the top one looks to have a cover made of crackled, dried, tanned flesh. The king continues, after a beat, "Tell me, Hans, are you good at chess?"

Hans looks up through the heavy lids of his eyes. He says, "I don't much play."

"Well," the king replies with a tight smile, "that much is obvious." Pause. Beat. Hans wants to strangle him, but can't get his arms to move. He feels he is an ant, there in the chair, waiting to be stepped on. What had happened, what had changed? Down in his darkened cell he had pictured the act in vivid clarity, the surety with which he would enact it, hands to throat, and now—now—

Now he could not even _move_.

"Your failure ensured that Arendelle would never trust us again. But I do not ask for trust," the king takes a small sip of his tea. "Only for cooperation."

Hans' mouth is dry, his headache a pounding, tribal drum beat. He hears the ghost-cry of the crow. "How do you plan to get her to cooperate?"

"Ah, my dear, little brother," the king smiles, calm, cool; a smile Hans wears every hour of every day, a smile he recognizes. "The first rule of chess is to never reveal your strategy. Niels," he finishes at a sharp bark, "how are you progressing?"

"As well as to be expected," his brother's voice floats back.

"I shall return before nightfall for a report. I have other matters to attend."

"Your majesty."

"I shall accompany you—" Hans begins, because he cannot abide this room.

"No," the king cuts him off with a graceful raising of his finger, stretching from the chair. "You will remain here." He begins towards the door, and there is his back, so familiar a sight. "And help your brother."

Hans' mouth goes dry.

"I have brought you what you required," the king says over his shoulder. It takes Hans a moment to realize that he is not addressing him, but, rather, Niels. "I expect development in my absence."

"Of course."

"Required?" Hans lets slip. He doesn't mean to. He stands, disrupting his teacup. It flips to the floor, but nothing spills from it. Strange. He had not remembered drinking it all. He did not like this; felt more trapped than when he was behind those slatted, gray bars in that small, decaying cell, here in this room with the red drapes and the royal finery and—

"Hans," the king pauses by the door, hand hovering on the knob, "what melts ice?"

"Fire, but I don't understand what—"

The door opens, the door shuts, and he is alone with Niels.

"Fire," his brother chortles. "You got it on the first guess, brother of mine. Now, come closer," he hears light, breathy footsteps, "and give me a drop of your blood."

* * *

"Hey, Elsa. _Psst_. Hey, wake up."

"Anna," she mumbles into her pillow. "Go back to sleep."

Her sister falls heavily across her, one hundred plus pounds of dead weight, enough to knock the breath from her lungs. She twists her fingers, and with a little help from an icy breeze manages to knock Anna head over heels and off the other side of the bed. Her sister's squawk of protest is, perhaps, one of the most un-princesslike things she has ever heard.

"_That's not fair_."

"Neither is waking me up in the middle of the night." Though the reprieve from dreams of broken noses was welcome. And it had been a quiet day, she supposes, after returning from her talk with Prince Albert. A quiet, good day, even though she could not get the image of his stooped-shouldered, unsure form out of her head; even though she had visions of the brothers multiplying like rabbits and invading her privacy when she just _really wanted to be left alone_—"What's wrong?"

Anna's chin is on the edge of the bed, her cheeks puffed. "Where were you earlier?"

"Dealing with things."

"I can deal with things, too."

"I don't trust you to deal with things."

"Well, I _never_—"

"Not _all_ things," Elsa amends with a crooked smile. "Especially not things that involve keeping your mouth shut."

Anna considers this. "Understandable."

Pause. "What's wrong, Anna?"

"Did Mom and Dad love each other?"

Elsa blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Did Mom and Dad—come on, Elsa, you heard me the first time—"

"Well, yes. I think they did."

"_Think_?"

"Well, I didn't necessarily have the—_best_ relationship with them." Elsa thinks of gloves. Propriety, as a necessity. "But I suppose they loved each other." She sits up, drawing her hands around her knees and side-eying her sister shrewdly across her nose, where she still was seated, chin on the bed. "Is this about you and Kristoff?"

"Ha! Ha, why would you ever think—yes, ok, it's about me and Kristoff." Anna clambers up next to her, less than gracefully, falling across the end of the bed and frowning up at her navy canopy.

"I thought you two had patched things up, after you got a concussion rescuing him," Elsa replies dryly.

"It's not _my_ fault the little gorge thing had such hard walls, ok?" Anna puffs out her chest and lets out a long sigh. "I just," she pushes her hands out from her stomach, "wish things were simple. I wish I didn't have to be afraid."

"Afraid? Why are you afraid?"

"After open doors."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"When I went out into that blizzard, I just did it to save myself. It was nice, the idea that Kristoff might love me, but I just—didn't want to die, you know? I mean, who wants that, am I right?"

"Oh, Anna—"

"No, I'm not—not saying that to make you feel bad, I'm just trying to understand what I feel, because _that_ happened, but then I kissed him and I felt something _here_." She slaps her chest. "I'm tired," she finishes petulantly.

Elsa reaches forward and tucks a loose strand of her sister's hair behind her ear; it was already beginning to look like a rat's nest, strangled and stiff. "Have you ever thought that maybe you're overthinking things, a tad?"

"Elsa," Anna turns to look at her. "I wanted to marry a man I just met. And he turned out to be a complete _jerk_."

"But Kristoff isn't—he's not—" she can't say the name, and finishes, "a jerk."

"He thinks you don't like him."

Elsa frowns. "Wherever did he get that idea?"

Anna peers at her through one eye. "Well, you aren't exactly warm and cuddly. But that's what makes you a special snowflake, so don't worry about it too much."

Elsa kicks Anna's legs off the bed.

"Hey!"

"Perhaps," Elsa begins, looking at her hands, "you shouldn't get so caught up in the technicality of it. It's like," she opens one, so her palm is flat up, and illuminated by the bright light of the moon. There's a tug in her gut, snow in her veins, and slowly, softly, the ice expands. She is making the shapes they've grown up with, the patterning along their doors, flowers and swirls sparkling purple in the moonlight. "But the moment you try to name what it is, you can't."

"I wish I could."

"I know." She looks at her creation for a moment more.

"It's beautiful," Anna says.

Elsa flexes her fingers and the whole thing disintegrates into softly falling snow. She says, quickly, "But promise me one thing."

"Yeah?"

"You'll stay true," she says, lightly poking her sister's shoulder, "to your heart."

Anna is back to staring at that navy canopy. She doesn't say anything, and now that it's out in the open, Elsa isn't sure it's the right advice to give. She wasn't a mother; wasn't even a proper sister. How could she know?

Beat, beat. Pause. Beat.

"Hey," Anna flips to her side, grinning mischievously. "Hey, Elsa, hey."

Elsa raises one eyebrow. Her sister leans closer, closer. She whispers—

"Do you wanna build a _snooow_man?"

* * *

The sun is just beginning to crest over the distant mountains as he approaches the edges of the Valley of the Living Rock. He hears the sounds of his childhood—the hectic yelling of the trolls as they prepare the perfect patch of moss, as they attempt to find the kids who have snuck off, as they try to out-do each other with stories. He listens, and smiles crookedly. He'd always been so quiet, his ma was afraid he'd been broken.

He shakes his head, fondly, and slips across the jagged rocks marking the border of the valley. He wanted to be in and out, quickly, which meant he had to find Grand Pabbie before the others found him. The old troll was usually sleeping at the edges of things; he'd complain, loudly, about the noise, but Kristoff had always been able to see the edges of his smile—

He trips over a rather lumpy rock, just barely catching his balance. Immediately he hears: "There is a reason I am—oh, Kristoff, it's only you."

He turns, and there, blinking up at him, was Pabbie. Shouts from the valley beyond drift past. "Sorry, Grand Pabbie."

The old troll unrolls himself, joints creaking in a grating, rocky fashion. He waves his thick fingers before him. "Not to worry. I see Bulda fixed you up well."

Kristoff blinks back, then remembers his leg. "Oh! Yeah, it's good as new, really."

"Excellent. And how is the princess?"

"Fine. She's talking again and stuff, she's—thank you," he finishes, bending down.

"Shall I call Bulda?"

"No, no, I should be getting back—I've got to harvest some ice. I just wanted to stop and ask you something."

Pabbie's eyes are old; deep, black wells. His yellow crystal _clink_ as he nods. "Of course. Though, she won't be pleased when she finds out you came and did not visit," he adds wryly.

Kristoff grimaces. "I know."

"What is it you need?"

"Well, it's just—Anna told me that she still feels cold. All the time. Yesterday morning she came out in full winter gear. And she mentioned something about it, when she got hurt. Is that—is it normal?" As normal, he thinks, as anything with her could be.

Pabbie frowns. "Her case is, in itself, unique. She turned, as you related to us, to solid ice, before she could unfreeze. For a few slight seconds she became one with the ice itself. There is no question, then, that she should retain some, even when thawed."

Kristoff licks his lips. Sometimes he wonders how he could like ice so much, after all the things it had put him through. "Is there anyway to get it to—go away?"

"Perhaps, in time," Pabbie says, scratching at his dying-grass mane. "There should always be _hope_ for such things. I would have thought, however, between her sister, herself, and you, that she found all the love she needed to thaw such a problem."

"Oh, I don't think she loves me," he says quickly, flushing.

"What makes you say that?" Pabbie cants his head.

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Kristoff asks; and the difference between Grand Pabbie and his mother is that Grand Pabbie lets him change the subject. The old troll nods slowly.

"Slightly, yes." He taps one of his thick, gray fingers against the ground. There is a sound like a chime, and the grass bends outward; beneath it, the dirt looks like a bubble, surface rainbowing and billowing. Grand Pabbie says, "From depths below I call ye forth, a crystal to lend thee heat and warmth."

Slowly, carefully, an orange peak presses through the dirt. Pabbie reaches forward and plucks it, like a flower, a crystal no bigger than his thumb, glowing a warm, ember-red. He holds it in his hand and says, conspiratorially, "Let's keep this between you and me, shall we? We would not want the children to think they can go summoning fire crystals willy-nilly."

Kristoff gives Grand Pabbie an open-mouthed grin. "You mean you've been sending them on trials this whole time—"

"Shush," the old troll smiles fondly. "Here, take it. It should give the princess some relief from the cold."

Kristoff takes the crystal gingerly in his hands. Immediately he feels heat racing up his fingers, a pleasant, tingling warmth, even through the thickness of his gloves. He tucks it in his sash. "Thank you, Grand Pabbie."

"Kristoff," Pabbie smiles, "you are family. Sometimes I fear you forget that."

"_Did I hear Kristoff_?"

"Oh, no," Kristoff says as Bulda rolls towards them from the valley and springs upward, eyebrows drawn down angrily. "Ma, it's not what it—"

"So you're too good to visit your mother, are you? Think you can get away just sneaking on the edges of things—come here!" She jumps forward and envelopes him in a hug that sends him sprawling backwards.

"_Ma_!"

"I told you to stay off that leg! Everyone!" she shouts over her shoulder. Kristoff catches Pabbie's amused eyes.

"No, Ma, please, I have to go, Sven's waiting—"

"_Kristoff's home_!" she shouts gleefully.

Pabbie flashes him a grin as he's led out of their little hiding place and into the valley. "Just roll with it," the old troll says sagely.

"It's so hard," Kristoff whispers with a sniff.

Then he's mobbed.

* * *

"You are both aware, I presume, of what rides on the success of this trip?"

"Yes, your majesty," they reply in unison.

"Good." Gulls are crying in the early morning air. "To a prosperous trip, ambassadors," he says loudly, with a sincere smile, extending his hand. Tomas takes it first. The vial slips between their palms; his brother pockets it smoothly. Viktor's handshake is merely for show. Alfons says, beneath his breath, so that those gathered on the deck of the ship cannot hear, "One drop. That's all it takes."

Tomas and Viktor give identical grins, sharp and eager. "Yes, your majesty," they reply in unison.

He turns, prepared to make his way down the dock, sun growing warm on his back. At the last second, he pauses. "Oh, and boys?"

"Yes?" they reply.

"If you see Albert," the king smiles a tight-lipped smile, "give him my regards."


	9. Chapter 9

**a/n: **some chapters are harder than others sighhhhh

GUYS THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE FAVS/FOLLOWS/REVIEWS! no, seriously. i'm so grateful people are enjoying this, and the reviews have been amazing. just, thank you. i'm sorry i can't respond to each one individually, but know that i want to, and that i read them all like six or seven times with a stupid grin on my face, so THANK YOU! :)

hopefully the next chap'll be up soonish.

until then, please read & review :)

* * *

There is a knock on the library door.

Elsa's heart seizes in her chest. When it begins moving again, it is at a slow stutter. She carefully sets down her quill, smoothing the crooked, half-chewed end of the feather, and takes a full three seconds to make the frost retreat from her clenched fist. The wood grain becomes visible again.

"Yes?" she calls, clasping her hands in her lap and looking towards the white library doors.

They creaks open slowly. She hears her future in the hinges. Then Kai is stepping through, looking disgruntled, and rather at a loss for words, and she closes her eyes. Breathe—in, out, in—when she opens them she catches the fog of her breath floating to the ceiling.

"Your majesty," Kai begins, and she, perched on the edge of her seat, is afraid of what he'll say if he continues, "I'm sorry to disturb."

"Kai, you aren't disturbing me at all," she says politely, bringing one shaking hand to cover the corner of the curled parchment detailing expenses that she had been reading, surreptitiously hiding the crudely drawn snowman.

He glances behind him, licks his lips. There is a herd of butterflies rampaging through her chest, and she is certain that one of these days she will snap, break; that one of these days her brittle frost veins will have taken all they could possibly take. "Majesty, two—"

_Don't say ships, don't say ambassadors, don't say ships, don't say ambassadors—_

"—children found their way into the palace courtyard."

She blinks, the knot in her chest receding like a wave from shore. She says, "Children?"

"Yes, your majesty." Kai fidgets again.

"Well," she begins slowly, wondering how she can put _find their parents and send them away _without sounding too—cold. "Well, did you find their mother and father?"

"They came alone, your majesty."

Silence snakes between them. Elsa blinks again, licks her lips, says after a beat, "Kai, I'm afraid I don't quite understand the problem—"

"One of them—the girl—managed to—ah—_elude_ the guards. She is at large in the castle."

Elsa brings her teeth together with a _clack_, mostly to keep the laugh bubbling up her throat in check. She ventures, "At large?"

"Yes, your majesty," Kai affirms, blushing scarlet across his cheeks. "But the other," he says, quickly, "is apprehended." He looks behind him, sharply and across his wide nose. "Come here, boy."

There are small, timid footsteps, and a face that registers like a whisper at the edges of her thoughts enters the library, focused on his feet. Kai crosses his arms and looks at the boy severely. _Where had she seen him before? _she wonders, blinking rapidly. She could feel sleeplessness as a physical ache across her shoulders, up her neck, settling around her eyes; and the constant worry that Prince Albert would not leave in time to catch the ambassadors sitting low in her stomach and at the jittering tips of her fingers. Where had she seen him?

_Oh_.

"Petter?" she ventures softly, standing, and the boy starts guiltily. She's able to take in more of the face than she saw yesterday, teetering atop a crooked pile of crates and boxes—it's thin, rather elfish, with a shock of curling auburn hair above bright blue eyes. The boy. The prince in the tower. She makes her way around the table, approaching slowly, softly, steadily. Five or so feet away, she bends down, knees brushing the floor. Kai starts. "You know this urchin?" he asks; there's no malice behind it, just shock.

"He's an acquaintance, yes," she smiles softly, just a crook of her lips. "Petter, did you come with Klara?"

He says, to his feet, "Yes'm." Then he bows clumsily. "Majesty."

"Petter, do look up."

He does, frowning, twitching—nervous. She tries to widen her smile, but children were—were—

Well.

"Do your parents know you're missing?"

"No'm. Majesty. No, majesty. Klara's fault," he mumbles, sniffing again and wiping his arm across the back of his mouth. "She said we needed to come see you."

Elsa cannot fathom why. She straightens, looking at Kai. "Would you send out a message, among the staff, to look for her?"

"Yes, your majesty." Kai bows. "And the boy?"

"Well," she says, holding out her hand, "he and I shall look for her myself. Is that alright, Petter?"

He eyes the proffered thing. One breath, two breath, three breath, four—

He takes it. His fingers are small and grubby. "I 'ppose that'd be ok," he mumbles to his feet.

"Lead the way," she says, gesturing with her free hand down the shadowed hall of portraits. As she passes Kai, still standing somewhat shocked in the doorway, she says, very seriously, "I'll have you know, this has nothing to do with me avoiding the chart of accounts." Or being tired of worrying about ships, ambassadors, princes—

Kai says, with the tip of a disbelieving smile, "Of course, your majesty."

She feels her parents' eyes on her back as she walks down the hall.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Kristoff deadpans.

"What? Oh, hey!"

He's got a sled-full of ice ready for the palace freezers, already beginning to sizzle and steam around the edges, even in the lukewarm midafternoon sun, but somehow, he thinks, eyebrows pressing upward in disbelief, Anna straddling the edge of her balcony thirty feet up was more important.

"Hey, I did not—didn't even see you there. When'd you get back?" she asks conversationally over her shoulder. "How was the trip?"

A few guards pass behind him, talking in furtive whispers and peering under bushes, like they're looking for something. He's getting hot in his winter gear. He tugs at his collar. Why weren't they _stopping_ her? Was this something she did a lot—hang out of windows and jump off buildings and fall down crevices—

"Get down from there."

"What? No, no, no, I'm completely safe up here, Kristopher, I've done this a thousand times—you said I couldn't climb mountains, but I _can_ climb palaces. It's easy, you just slide towards the edge over here and—_oops_! Not that, don't do that—"

Kristoff is trying to decide when she became a suicidal maniac, and then realizes with a start that she's _always_ been a suicidal maniac, what with the _take me up the North Mountain_ and _catch_ and _let's just talk to my sister the crazy snow queen_—he whips off his gloves and comes to stand beneath her, arms outstretched to break her inevitable fall. A maid hurries by.

Really, was this _normal_?

"Anna."

"Please, Kristopher," she waves her hand dramatically at him, brushing aside his concern. "I could do this in my sleep." And with that she stands, brings her other leg from the safety of the balcony across the railing to land on the thin edge, and reaches for the lip of a window just slightly above her.

And slips.

And falls.

And lands on him like a reindeer.

"_Holy—" _he wheezes, trying to regain his breath as she rolls off him. He opens his mouth in exasperation, gesturing in disbelief between the roof and the balcony and her and what the actual—

"Well, I don't normally fall," Anna sniffs primly, rolling backwards to her knees, dusting off the length of her skirt. She reaches forward and pats his stomach gingerly, which he can barely feel through the thick layers of his outer coat. "You made me nervous. Are you ok?"

"I've been better."

"But you're breathing," she points out.

"You're going to kill me one of these days."

"I haven't been able to yet," she replies cheekily, with a flash of a grin. She extends a hand and tries to pull him upright, but gives up halfway and falls over next to him. "Man, you're like a mountain. Hey, what's that?"

And before he can muster up enough faux-anger at the insult she's reaching for the bit of orange poking up and over his sash. He bats her hand away. "Nothing. It's nothing. It's not for you, why would you even think that?"

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Kristoff—"

"Why were you trying to climb onto the roof?"

"Well, I didn't know when you were getting back," she tells the sky. He hears another set of guards hurry past, and wonders what picture they must paint, princess and royal ice harvester laid out on the grassy-cobbled ground. "And I thought, why not enjoy this beautiful day?"

"You could've enjoyed it _on the balcony_."

"No, I have a special spot, but you can only get to it by climbing up."

"_You're crazy._"

"Maybe?"

"Don't you have—I don't know, _princess_ stuff to be doing or something—"

"No. Not—I mean. I don't know." She fades off, pursing her lips. "No. Not me. I'm just here."

He twists his head to look at her, contemplating prodding further, but she shakes it off quickly and pushes to her knees, whacking his head in the process.

"_Ow_—"

"Sorry!"

"Kristopher?" Another voice. He rubs his jaw, getting to his feet and looking down the path leading to the central courtyard. There's a portly man there, with a wide nose, and a familiar look of almost-disgust. Kai. Almost-disgust probably because he smelled and Sven was eating them out of hay and home and he was only an ice harvester, after all, even if he was a royal one.

"It's Kristoff," Kristoff says.

"Yes, well, your ice is melting. Care to direct your attention to placing it in the kitchen boxes?" he asks.

"Sure." Kristoff doesn't put much effort into his response. Instead he turns to Anna, still kneeling on the ground, and grabs her underneath the arms, pulling her to her feet.

"Oh, thanks, thanks for that, I didn't—ha!" she laughs nervously, grasping her left hand with her right.

"Sure," he replies, and this time he _does_ put effort into his response—a smile, small and nervous.

"I must inform you," Kai coughs formally, and they break off eye contact, "that there is a missing girl we are attempting to locate. Seven, perhaps eight years of age."

"Missing girl? I'm on it! Aye, aye, sir!" Anna salutes, when, Kristoff thinks, blinking rapidly, she should really be asking, you know, how the girl got there, where she was from, _what she was doing in the palace_. He thinks this nonchalant attitude towards all things weird must really just stem from the closed gates and the ice magic.

Yeah, that.

Kai smiles fondly in her direction, before giving Kristoff one last, almost-withering look—he had to give the man credit for being able to hide his emotions well—and turning on his heels.

"Well, gotta go—the ice and—yeah." He kisses her cheek lightly, quickly, feeling uncertain. She smiles.

"Hey, Kristoff?"

"Yeah?" he pauses, half-turning.

"My secret place. I'll show it to you later."

"It's a date," he says without thinking, and then pales. "I mean, it could be a date, if you wanted it to be—I mean, mate de—_no, I mean date me_—"

"Kristoff!" Anna laughs, eyes shining. "It's a _date_."

He nods, one side of his mouth perking up.

He bounds back to the courtyard.

* * *

"What game were you playing yesterday?" Elsa asks softly. They are checking behind all the curtains in the dining room, listening for the faintest of footsteps, of breaths. Suddenly the palace feels haunted—the sway of drapes, the flicker of candlelight, the glimpse of something in the mirrors as they pass—all could be a little girl lurking in the shadows.

But when they approach, and find none, Elsa can only think of ghosts.

"Save the Prince," Petter replies seriously. "Sometimes it's Save the Princess, but Klara doesn't like that one much."

"I see."

There is nothing behind the drapes but wall. She sighs.

"Well, Petter. I suppose we shall try the entrance hall, next."

* * *

"Oh," Anna says, quirking a slow smile. "Hello."

"Hullo," the girl sniffs.

Her secret place was nice, and it would've been a beautiful day to stare at the sky from it, no doubt there, but something about showing it to Kristoff tonight had her stomach thrumming, her nerves singing, so she had gone to her _second_ secret place, which wasn't really a secret, more like the art gallery—

"Are you the one everyone's looking for?" she asks, stepping inside. She knew every inch of this room; every painting, every bench, every panel of the intricate wood flooring. Afternoon sunlight spilled in through the leaded glass of the window. There was a little girl staring up at one of the larger paintings, head cocked to one side, and Olaf was standing next to her.

"Anna," the snowman begins, "I don't know if you should know this, but I found a girl."

"I see that," Anna says, stepping forward. "You've got the palace all in an uproar," she continues. "I mean, almost as bad as the time I locked myself in the kitchen cupboard and they had to, like, saw their way in—of course it was an _accident_, I just wanted some sticky pudding, I mean, that stuff is fantastic, have you ever had it?"

"No."

"Huh, really? I thought it was kinda a staple." Anna shrugs. "Whatcha doing?"

"Looking at paintings."

"Hm," Anna comes to a stop, standing next to girl and snowman and looking up at one of her favorites—the girl on the swing. "I love this one."

"I was just telling her about how you and Elsa painted all of these," Olaf says, clapping his hands. "Aren't they fantastic artists?" he whispers through the side of his mouth.

"Ain't no way could've painted all of 'em," the girl says.

"No, I only painted, like, six." Anna examines her nails. Then she smiles. "Kidding! We got all these from—dealers or something, I don't know. My mom really liked paintings."

"Who's your mom?"

"The queen."

"The queen?"

"Well, the old queen. My sister's the queen now. So my mom was the old queen—she appreciated art," Anna says, canting her head back up at the happy girl, the soft hues of pinks and greens. She had been going to say, _she appreciated beauty_, but then she thinks about Elsa's powers, and fixes it to, _she appreciated controlled beauty_.

"You ain't the princess."

"Why not?" Anna asks, unperturbed.

"'Cause princesses wear tiaras and fancy clothes. And you got dirt on your skirt."

Anna looks down at her casual corset, the casual-er top beneath it, the lined and wrinkled skirt. Sure enough, there was a grass stain on one hip, and a brownish stain over one knee, from where she fell onto Kristoff. She was making a habit of that. She should probably stop.

"This is true."

"So who're you then?"

"Who're _you_?"

"'M Klara."

"I'm Anna."

"And I'm Olaf!"

"I knows that," the girl snaps to the snowman.

"You having fun, looking at paintings?" Anna asks. The girl regards her with stubborn, pursed lips.

"Yeah."

Anna smiles. "I used to like them because they could take you places. Was never any good at art, though."

"Yeah."

Anna looks slyly down at her and says, "Wanna have _more_ fun?"

Klara nods.

* * *

Elsa glances down at Petter. The little boy looks miserable, and tired; and his parents, wherever they were, must be worried sick.

"Just this last room," she says, as they round the corner and come upon the hall with the doorway leading to the gallery. "I'm sure she's in here."

"Mhm."

She pauses mid-step, because the door in question is open, and there's laughter floating from it.

Elsa hurries forward.

She had just wanted to find his friend, to cheer him up, but well, she was just—just not—she was—

Anna is bouncing up and down on the blue patterned bench cushions, Klara next to her, and they're both giggling rather crazily. Olaf is floating across the wood floor, shouting, "Higher, higher! Glide and pivot, glide and pivot!"

—she was the wrong sister for _that_ job.

"Klara, you're in _sooo_ much trouble!" Petter shouts by way of greeting.

"Are not!" Klara yells back. "Where'd you come from?"

"Hey, Elsa, I found the kid!" Anna grins. The bench shifts, sliding out from under them, and the two end up in a heap on the floor. "Man, am I just all over the place today, or what—"

"See, you ain't a princess, 'cause you keep _falling_."

"Yeah, yeah, rub it in why don't you—"

Elsa clasps her hands in front of her, watching. Petter skids forward, tripping over Olaf in his haste so that the snowman breaks into three pieces and slides across the floor. The boy lands heavily on his back several feet from his friend, and proceeds, instantly, to shout, "You can't just go sneakin' into palaces—"

"Can so!"

"Can _not_! You made the majesty-queen look all over for you—"

Klara rubs her eyes, raising her chin in Elsa's direction. She gets to her feet, and Elsa is suddenly reminded of Prince Albert's words from yesterday—_I do believe Klara will one day join your royal guard_—

"You must make Albert come see us," the little girl says.

Elsa blinks, taken aback. Was _that_ what this whole fiasco had been about? Anna looks at her in confusion, still sprawled ungracefully across the floor.

"He left and said he couldn't come back," Klara explains, "but we didn't finish our game. And he dropped this." Klara fishes out from one of the wide pockets of her ill-fitting dress a folded piece of parchment. It's bent with playing, and running; crinkled, and dirty. But there is the sigil of Arendelle unmistakably stamped upon the back in royal purple. "Momma took it and said she would come to the palace today, but then I saw she hid it underneath her pillow, so _I _took it."

Elsa feels cold, from the tips of her fingers to the soles of her feet. The temperature drops in the room. Her sister notices right away, clambering up and stepping forward. "Elsa?" she asks. "What's wrong?"

The letter she wrote. _Her_ letter. Of _course_ Prince Albert would conveniently lose it, of _course_ he would hope for it to disappear—she'd been a fool to take him at his word, too naïve, too—too _everything_—she had to be a strong queen, a right queen, and that meant sending her own ambassadors, getting this sorted out, _and no more Southern Isles_—

"Elsa!" Anna's voice is sharp. There is frost along the doorframe, the panes of the window. Ice is creeping in the corners of the room, threatening the paintings. With a quick intake of breath it all retreats. Disappears. She looks up. Her sister's wide eyes meet her own.

"Yes," she says distractedly. "Yes, we shall visit Prince Albert."

Klara claps her hands excitedly, disturbing the letter, which falls like a leaf to the floor. The little girl begins to talk to Petter, shouts of _adventure_ and _fun_. Elsa walks to the fallen thing like a dead man, bending, picking it up rather mechanically. She folds it to her side.

"You're visiting Prince Albert?" Anna asks.

Elsa walks towards the door.

"_Elsa_!" Her sister shouts rather desperately. She turns, shaken out of her reverie. "What's _wrong_?"

"I need to talk to the prince."

"Can't you leave him alone? Please?"

Elsa feels the letter. "No. No, I can't."

"Well, let me take Klara and—and—shoot, I don't—well, let me take them to see him and then back to their houses, why don't you—"

"No. No, I need to address this issue." She thought she _had _addressed this issue.

"Elsa, let me help you, please!"

"You can't, Anna," Elsa sighs. "I'm the queen."

Anna's mouth falls open. Had they really been building snowmen last night? Her sister's mouth falls open, and Elsa knows why—because _I'm the queen_ was just a way of saying _you're the spare_, or something along those lines—which she wasn't—wasn't suggesting, she just couldn't organize her thoughts. She felt so thin, like butter scraped over too much bread—

"I'll keep my mouth shut around him." Anna's voice is small. "Promise."

Elsa shakes her head. "I'll be back shortly. Petter. Klara," she calls, trying to smooth out the ice lining the edges of her voice.

She wants to sleep.

She turns away, towards the hall. Her face is tight. She's so tired.

"I'm the queen," she whispers.


	10. Chapter 10

**a/n: **well this chapter got away from me and became like twice as long oops

so again, thank you thank you thank you for the support! please continue to review—i read them all and they keep me writing! :) i'm going to try my darndest to get the next chap up soon (aka before my school starts back up).

thanks, guys!

* * *

"I need to speak to Prince Albert."

"Well, beggin' yer pardon, majesty, but he's below decks now goin' over the 'ull—"

"_Immediately_."

"Yes'm."

The sailor rushes up the gangplank. Her anger is palpable, no matter how she tries to control it—seeping into the dock and arcing across the water, written in the thin line of her mouth and the rigid posture of her hands. There are two children back in the market square who, being watched by two guards, want to see this man. This unassuming, unappealing, good for nothing—

Not even the amiable Master Olin dared approach. She could feel the harbormaster's eyes on her from afar, down the dock, where he no doubt waited to intervene should it come to that—

"Queen Elsa?" Prince Albert's disheveled head emerges over the railing of the ship. He's slightly out of breath, and there appears to be grease, or tar, plastered beneath his left eye. The rest of his body comes into view, and he looks _entirely_ un-presentable—a loose white shirt rolled up to his elbows, and his pants ripped at one knee. He's wiping his hands on a cloth. He ducks under a large plank of wood being carried across the deck and hurries down the gangplank to the dock, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste. There is a shy smile around his lips. "I didn't think—I mean, after—hullo! I mean, hello, your majesty." He bows clumsily, upon leveling with her. "How are you?" He attempts to lean backwards against the ship but the gap is too far; he nearly falls.

She doesn't respond, keeping her face smooth, blank. Cracking, and ice is blooming in angry red sheets beneath them on the water.

"Is—is something the matter?" Prince Albert asks, smile dropping. She does that a lot to him, doesn't she? Elsa thinks grimly, then realizes it doesn't matter, because tucked against her side was the letter, because he was—was _his_ brother—_no one was getting anywhere with her_—and no one could possibly be this daft, could they?

_Could they?_

Those eyes—_his eyes_—are confused. Elsa takes a deep breath.

"This," she replies coolly. She pulls the letter from her side, holding it like a wounded soldier. "This is the matter."

"What's that?" Prince Albert asks, frowning, and then his eyebrows shoot up his forehead and he pats his pockets. "Oh, dear."

"I trusted that you would see this safely to your shores, but if you insist upon throwing it aside then I can only assume that reflects the ground upon which our people stand—"

"No, it's not—I didn't—" the prince runs a hand through his foppish curls. "I didn't mean—"

"I granted you safe harbor, but I can take it away—"

"No, Queen Elsa, I didn't—"

"And I do not wish further relations with _any_ member of the Southern Isles—"

"Queen Elsa!" He takes her upper arms in his hands. They're very warm, and the ice around her feet suddenly stops. She blinks, taken aback, and then he blinks, taken aback, staring open-mouthed at her, and her guards were back in the square watching Klara and Petter or they would be on him in a heartbeat—

He lets go immediately, practically jumping away, as if burned. He gulps a deep breath, pointing to the letter still perched in her hand.

"I swear to you I did not drop that letter on purpose."

And his eyes—_those eyes_—

She can see right through them. There is anger, but she feels, from the sloped curve of his shoulders, that it is mostly directed at himself; a little disbelief; a lot of skittish nervousness; and something sitting at the edges, something as he stares at her face; something like awe. He doesn't say anything about the snow gathered around his feet, or the ice in the harbor, or the way the air turns ten degrees cooler as he nears her. She still feels the imprint of his hands on her arms.

The letter sits like gunpowder between them.

She shakes her head, She blinks at it. She whispers, "I just don't think I can trust you." There is a part of her that dearly wishes to trust _someone,_ and a part of her that is screaming _get out, get out, get out_—

"We have this thing, back at—back at home," he says after a beat, where the bellows along the dock weave between them, says just as quietly, so she is forced to lean closer to hear over the men shouting on the deck above them, "my brothers and I—"

"I do _not_ wish to hear of your—"

"No, it's not—look, it's just—where I come from, swearing means something. You're held to it. We say, _swear on something you value_. I swear," he begins, finally looking up into her eyes with _those ones_, those ones she can't figure out, that don't belong in his freckled face, above his crooked nose, and for the first time those eyes don't glance to his forearm for help. She thinks he'll say gold. She thinks he'll say his kingdom. His princedom. His life. Instead he says, "I swear on happily ever after that I'm not lying to you."

She straightens, fist involuntarily closing around her neat scrawl, crushing the emblem of Arendelle. In her disbelief, the ice retreats. "Happily ever after?" _Are you kidding me? _she wants to say, but she isn't—can't be—Anna.

He's flushing, across the bent of his broken nose, and now he's rubbing his forearm almost violently, like he's praying a speech will appear there by magic. "It's the thing I value most, because it means there's hope." He almost mumbles it. Practically barrels through it. "Hans would always say that happily ever afters were for children's stories and fairy dreams. Would always say that they didn't—didn't have any bearing in real life. But I had to hope," he exhales. "Because if I didn't, there wasn't anything." And then, as if remembering she's standing there, he straightens and repeats, "That's what I swear on."

Beat. Two. "I don't understand you," she sighs, and she's so, _so_ tired.

He cocks a half-smile. "It's alright. I don't understand me either."

"It's a horrible place to be, not understanding oneself."

He looks at her for a long moment, then coughs uncomfortably. He fiddles with his forearm again. "I'm sure I dropped it leaving. I'm always losing things. Felix used to say I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached, but then he—well, never mind, that's not—I must've dropped it back near—" and then it dawns on him. "But how did you get it?"

"Petter and Klara came by the castle to tell me off, for confining you to the ship," Elsa almost-smiles down at the letter, even though she feels very much like she wants to be ill. "Klara had this. She meant to return it to you."

"Are they—" he looks around the dock, eyes skimming the bustling workers.

"They're back in the market square, I didn't want—them to see," she finishes.

"See me get impaled?" He grins, tapping the ice by his foot, then—"Sorry, bad joke, I just. Yeah. Yes, I mean." He looks back at the men swarming over his ship. "I can take them back, if you wish. You can put a guard on me and everything."

"No, I'll—" but as she's about to finish she realizes with a start that she _couldn't_ take the children back, even if she wanted to; couldn't find that square without asking. She clasps her hands, feeling the rough of the parchment between them. A bad taste in her mouth. There had been so many closed doors, for so long, and she was floating above them. Anna was somewhere back in the palace. She should go apologize—

But Petter, and Klara—

But Prince Albert—

"May I?" he asks softly, after a beat. He motions to the crumpled letter. She lets him take it, watches as he smooths it carefully over his knee. "There. Practically new."

_Get it together, _she thinks, looking at the harbor, watching the ice collapse into the warm summer water, _get it together._

"No, I'll send the guards to take them," she says at last.

"Alright. Well, tell them—tell them I say hi, then—if that's not too much to ask. I mean, not too much trouble."

"Of course."

Her anger is nearly spent, leaving her bone-weary once more. She had never reacted like that to anything before—with _anger_. She had not recognized it, creeping up her throat, making her feet ring with frost, until she had been out of the palace, in the fresh air of the town, until she had realized that she had spoken out of turn to Anna, had, perhaps, overreacted, and by then it was too late—

But it had been good, she thinks with a start. To _feel_.

"Queen Elsa," Prince Albert ventures after an uncomfortable pause. "It's not my place. But you—you seem—tightly wound."

"You're right," she feels her hard, icy anger returning. "It isn't your place."

"Before my brother Fredrik left to fight," he begins, glancing back at her, as if waiting for her to snap _no more brothers_—but she remains silent, hating herself in her curiosity, in her nicety, in her politics—"well, we used to sneak out of the palace to look around. To get a feel for the people. Felix started it, really, but it was just a way to see—happenings and—sort of forget, maybe, that we were royalty. For a few hours, at least."

The thought is startling. The thought is unheard of. She is queen. If she took that away, who would she be?

Just Elsa?

Unthinkable.

Leave.

Leave, now.

"Goodbye, Prince Albert." She turns on her heel. Pauses. Glances over her shoulder. "I'm sorry for any miscommunication."

* * *

"I _know_ she's the queen," Anna tells Olaf, spread-eagle on the floor of the gallery and watching the hand of the grandfather clock. She feels nine again. "That doesn't mean I can't, like, _help_ or anything—I can do loads of things, like—like—"

"Like slide down mountains!"

"Exactly!" Anna shouts in agreement. Olaf squirms next to her.

"Or, you know, find pungent reindeer kings."

Anna smiles. "_Exactly_ exactly," she sighs, so heavy and loud her bangs flutter and flash and disappear. "I mean," she groans, flinging an arm dramatically over her eyes. "Why can't she just let me _help_?"

* * *

"Would you please escort Petter and Klara back to their homes?"

"Yes, your majesty," the guards reply.

"What about Albert?" Klara asks stubbornly.

"He is very busy at the moment. I'm sorry, Klara."

The little girl pouts, turning away, stomping forward, and it was alright, really, she did not need to be liked by everyone—

Petter stands before her, and holds out his grubby hand. She takes it, and he bows, small and boyish in the square. "Majesty," he says, very formally, sounding too old, too young, too everything, "thanks."

Elsa smiles, and it isn't almost.

* * *

The king says, "You are about to do a great service to the Southern Isles, Hans. A thing to erase all errors; to raise you," he finishes slowly, "above all brothers."

Hans licks his lips, and feels, through his glove, the sore tip of his left index finger, which his brother had pricked yesterday. A drop of blood, red as the sunset, in a wooden bowl. Then a dismissive, "You can leave. I'm sure your chambers are as you left them."

Hans wants to ask, _will it raise me to king_, but doesn't; can't seem to get his mouth to work. His days of back talk are stuck in his cell.

He almost misses them.

He says, "May I be of use, brother."

"All this talk of brothers; you think someone had died!"

King Alfons stops his heavy, sure footsteps. Hans slows next to him. Leaning against the red-wallpaper, half-hidden between suits of armor and outlined by the dying twilight, is Lukas. Hans had not seen him since the day he had visited the cell, to scold and admonish in his horribly obtuse way. He feels disgust settling at the edges of his thoughts, around the upper corners of his mouth.

Lukas unrolls himself from the wall. Standing in the middle of the hall, he could not look less like his twin, Hans thinks. The king was dark-haired, heavily-mustached, well-built; Lukas was a slight as the breeze, his dirty-blonde hair settled over sharp, straight features.

He fought in lies and trickery and wits and cunning. Hans had never had any respect for the man.

"Lukas," King Alfons drawls. "What are you doing here?"

"Just inquiring after the state of our newly freed baby brother. How fares the summer air, Hans?"

"I am well, thank you," Hans bows stiffly.

"Excellent, excellent. Completely excellent. Tell me, Alfons," and there was only one person who could get away with calling the king such, "I seem to be missing some of my topographical maps. The ones concerning the Dragon's Strait, the Black Ocean—Arendelle. Have you seen them?"

"Of course not," the king snaps.

Lukas shrugs his shoulders. "Just checking, then." He wanders past them, ruffling Hans' hair as he passes. "Adieu, baby brother. Oh, and Alfons?"

"Hm?"

"Have you heard anything from Albert?"

"He is well."

"Ah. That is _ever_ so wonderful."

"Indeed."

"Well, then! Ta, brother."

His footsteps echo down the hall. The king says, without much emotion, "He is a nuisance."

And Hans asks, "Why don't you just kill him, then?"

"Because, Hans." The king cracks his neck. "To each death, their own time."

* * *

_Forget we were royalty for a few hours—_

_A few hours—_

_Forget— _

Elsa looks down at the papers scattered across her desk and purses her lips. It's a wonderfully quaint notion, from someone—what, she thinks coldly, _twelfth_ in line? Of course he could do it. It was a different world without the weight of a kingdom. She could fly without the weight of a kingdom. Soar, into the stars.

She can feel the bite of her nails against her palms, little crescent moons digging into her skin. The words across the parchments and letters are blurring, melting, running—_trade _and _taxes_ and _merchants_ and _guards_. She closes her eyes, putting two soothing fingers to each of her temples and calling her curse to her. It settles near her eyes—cool, frosted relief.

_She would walk down to the entrance hall and out into the courtyard. No, glide—she would _glide_ down to the entrance hall and out into the courtyard, and the stares of the rulers previous would slip off of her like oil from water, slick, harmless. There would be the sky, wide awake above, pulsating greensbluespurples over an ocean of stars she could reach out and cup in her hands. She would go out the front gate, across the bridge, and there would be Arendelle, alit and beautiful and wonderfully _alive_. She would listen to her people and feel their heartbeats, their hopes, their dreams. She would fly up, up, _up_—_

She forces her eyes open. The fire is nearly embers. Outside, the sky is darkening twilight. In a perfect world, she thinks, brushing the papers before her into a pile and placing her quill atop it all, in a perfect world she would rule from her ice palace.

She wonders, standing gracefully from her stiff-backed chair, if it's still there, or if it's beginning to melt, like a wilting, dying flower. She wonders what will happen to it, alone in the mountains, and then she wonders if it will remain there forever, or drift away when she dies—fall to water and skid down the slopes.

Will that happen? When she dies, will everything just—disappear?

Olaf opens the door. She starts. She'd been staring at one of the model ships displayed upon the shelves. She loathed ships.

"Elsa?"

"Hey, little guy," she smiles. The second full smile that day, and it's doing a number on her. She's just so tired. _Tightly wound_. That's what Albert had said. _Tightly wound_. She was in no way tightly wound, that was utterly, horribly ridiculous—

She turns, reaching for another log to throw onto the flames, and ice shoots from the tips of her fingers in five perfect, frosted arcs. The crystals slam against the stone hearth and shatter, raining dewy drops on the dying fire and extinguishing it completely.

Well.

"What can I do for you?" she says quickly, trying to cover up her gaff, squinting to find the long matches in the dark. She strikes one against stone and throws it onto the embers, and another log atop it, and another, until she can _almost_ feel the heat. She lets her hands rest nearly against the flame, then thinks that she must soon be done with these self-indulgent moments.

She turns.

Olaf is blinking wide-eyed at her, in front of those white library doors. He says, "Well, nothing, really. Just sayin' hi. How you doin'?" His childish mouth breaks into a side-splitting grin, and he waddles to the window, to peer out of the leaded glass. "Did you give that prince guy a stern for-what's-it?"

"A what-for?"

"Yeah, that. Well, did ya?" Olaf's nose is sinking further and further into his head the closer he pushes it up against the glass.

"I suppose not. Maybe. I don't know."

She doesn't want to sit back in that chair. She wanders over to the snowman instead, gathering her skirts around her and perching at the window seat, like she used to when she was small and learning about _trade _and _taxes_ and _merchants_ and _guards_. Outside the city is coming to life in the way it only ever can at night, lights beginning to burn in windows, men shouting after a long day at work, children racing out to greet fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. Family. Olaf says, apropos of nothing, "You know, Anna's good at lotsa of things. Like finding gross men and sliding down mountains."

"Is that all you two could come up with?" Elsa replies blithely, watching the setting sun glitter across the fjord. She side-eyes Olaf, but he isn't paying attention, so she pulls her knees up close and wraps her arms around her legs, setting her chin atop them.

"_Mayyy_beee," Olaf whispers.

Elsa laughs. She laughs because she hadn't apologized to her sister yet. She laughs because of course they would only think of that—"Anna is good at talking to people. She's good at being brave. At being open. She's good at caring. She's good at a lot of things."

"Huh. Well, you know," Olaf sits back, trying to reach the large bulk of his nose at the back of his head with his stubby stick arms, "you're good at lotsa things, too. I mean, you _made_ me."

Elsa gently presses his nose through his skull.

"Head rush!"

"I'm tired, Olaf," she whispers.

"Get some sleep, then," Olaf says with a smile and a friendly pat on her arm. "That's the best way to be _un_tired."

Elsa, very quickly and before she can think twice, reaches forward and engulfs the little snowman in a hug, her cheek pressed to the side of his head; she can feel the tickle of his flurry, knows it is getting flakes across her shoulders, and skirt.

"Warm hugs!" Olaf shouts gleefully, returning it. "Ooo, I love these!"

_Forget_, Elsa prays, closing her eyes tightly.

_Forget._

* * *

The room smells like piss; carrion and rotting flesh. Outside the sun is sinking. There is a fire burning in the grate and tea set before it. It looks like a mockery, the white china shining almost yellow in the half-light. Hans watches the king walk slowly in that direction; watches him reach the first chair and turn it with the flat of his boot, so that it faces the center of the room; watches him begin to pour.

"Tea, Hans?"

"No, thank you," Hans says, just as Niels declares, "No substances before." He materializes from a dark corner. There is a crow on his shoulder. Something is wrong with its eyes. Something is wrong with its body, too, but Hans can't make out what in the poor light. "I don't want him getting sick all over the floor."

And there is certainly a lot of it, Hans notices, fighting to keep his face blank, to keep the rolling of his stomach in check. The tables, the bottles of floating substances, the piles of books—all had been pressed to the sides of the room to make a large clearing in the center. There are chalk markings across the wood. Symbols he doesn't understand. Writing in runes. In the center is a smaller circle, and inscribed in that a star.

Niels points to it. "Stand there."

Hans looks at the cool, calm gaze of the king. Expecting. Unyielding. He says. "Of course."

* * *

"Does this look ok?"

Sven blinks.

"You're right, you're right—too much. Flowers? Is that a thing, should I bring her flowers?"

Sven bends down for more hay.

"You're really unhelpful sometimes."

* * *

Elsa looks at the covered plate before her. She reaches for her water, managing a bare-bones sip before it freezes in her hand. She sets the glass back down. There is an empty seat next to her, and another next to that, and another, and all the way down the long table. Kai is standing somewhere behind her. He coughs. He says, "Do you want me to send someone—"

"She'll be here," Elsa replies, watching the steam rise from the covered basket of rolls. Just as she finishes the door to the dining hall opens, and Anna scurries inside. She's not dressed for dinner. She's dressed like she's going to find her way up the North Mountain. Elsa blinks.

"Hey, how are you?" Anna flings herself to a stop behind her usual chair and grabs the whole basket of rolls. "I'm just gonna take these—"

"Where—where are you going?"

"Out, just—it's nothing. I mean, it's not nothing, it's something, but it's nothing in that I'm not like, doing a nature hike or anything." She examines the basket of rolls pressed to her hip. "Is the butter in here?"

"Anna—"

"I know, I know, I should've said something before." Anna collapses in her chair rather gracelessly. "But I didn't want to irritate you."

"You don't _irritate _me."

Anna raises her eyebrows.

"Often. You don't irritate me _often_."

Anna says, "So do you mind?"

"I don't even know what you're doing!"

"Maybekindofadate."

"A _date_?"

"You know! It's that thing, where the people do the stuff, together—like, you know—like ice harvesting."

"You're going _ice harvesting_?"

"No! No, no way, I don't think—you'd be a good ice harvester, you know? No, I'm having a picnic! Well, a dinner roll picnic. Does that still count? It should still count, right—"

"For what it's worth," Elsa breaks off, looking at the metal covering over her dinner, "I think you're good at a lot of things."

"—and I mean, wine, but I think that stuff is nasty—what?" Anna shakes her head. She has half a bread roll hanging from her mouth.

"I'm sorry."

Anna smiles. She smiles so easily, Elsa is almost jealous. Almost. "Hey. I know. I get it. Well, I mean, I sort of get it. I guess I won't ever actually _get it_, get it, but—you know." She reaches across the table, accidentally knocking over the frozen glass of water with an _oops_, and grabs Elsa's hand. "I want to help."

Elsa squeezes back. "I know." They look at each other for a second. The face she knows better than her own. The face that she doesn't know at all. Anna says, setting the rolls down, "Hey, you know, I think I'll have a desert picnic date. So what're we having for dinner?"

Elsa shakes her head. "_You_ are having a nice picnic." She turns to look at Kai behind her. "Can we prepare a basket for the princess?"

"Of course, your majesty."

"Water, I think," she says, giving one final squeeze and letting go, "instead of wine."

"Elsa, I can't!"

"You can. Queen's orders. Just—don't do anything you'd regret."

Anna grins. "I know, I know. Reputation. Princess. Got it."

And when her sister leaves, laden with food, Elsa finally uncovers her own. There is a slab of steak, bloody, pink. Some asparagus, and potatoes. Elsa reaches for her fork and knife.

The clank of silverware. The flicker of candles.

She's alone.

* * *

Kristoff is waiting for her in front of the door to her room. The basket in her arms is heavy. She feels bad, leaving her sister to eat alone, but then, she would've actually said that she didn't want to eat alone, right? But then, also, this was Elsa, who really didn't say much of anything ever and—

She's an idiot, isn't she? Not Elsa. Her. Anna. She was an idiot. She bites her lip and sighs, 'cause, like, how was her sister supposed to give her stuff to do, to trust her, if she—Anna, she-Anna—couldn't even notice stuff like this—

"Uh, hey."

Anna stops. She's nearly to the hall of portraits, having wandered straight past Kristoff. She turns on her heel. "I completely meant to do that."

"Did you?"

"Yeah. Totally. How are—" she stops, finally taking in his appearance. He's wearing his summer gear, and his clothes are almost presentable. He's holding a daisy in one hand, and looking nervously to one side, and she laughs, practically skipping forward. She kisses his cheek. "Hi."

"Hi. I got your flower. _No, that's not what I_—"

"It's lovely," she laughs again, smiling to cover the flush across her cheeks. "I brought dinner."

"Picnic?"

"You know it. Come on." She slips her elbows behind the handle of her door and shoves it open. Her room is slightly mussed. She staggers forward and drops the basket on her bed, looking at the pink canopy over it. So much better than navy. Like, _way_ better.

Kristoff is standing at the door rather uncertainly. He looks too solid, too real, among the rosemaling of her blankets, her floor, her vanity, the little white daisy in his large hand. Something stirs across the lower half of her stomach. She bites her lip.

"What's wrong?" Kristoff asks, suddenly wary. He looks down at himself.

"Nothing—you're not wrong. Nothing's wrong. You're perfect. Wait, what?" She shakes her head, feeling her flush return. "No, I mean—it's my sister. I just—do you mind if we eat with her? Just dinner. She's just—all alone."

Kristoff looks thoughtful. She wonders about what. He shrugs. "Sure."

"Mmkay, I'll be—right back, just—don't move, don't move an inch—" she swings out into the hall, pauses, nearly runs back into his back, "I'm going to know if you move!"

"_Go_, Anna," he laughs.

Anna races out the door and down the hall and hops on the bannister. Down she slides, landing at a fast run and barreling into the doors of the dining hall. "Elsa, come on!" she shouts, but then she stops, because there's no one there now but a few servants, clearing the table, and Kai.

"Princess," he starts. "Is something the matter?"

"I just wanted to invite Elsa along, 'cause I'm an idiot, did you know?"

"I—"

"Don't answer that, never mind. Where'd she go?"

"She decided to take the rest of her meal in the library. She asked specifically not to be disturbed."

"Oh," Anna nods slowly. "Oh, ok. Well, I'm just going to—I'm going." Kristoff was waiting. Kristoff holding that delicate little flower, and were they ever going to get things right? she thinks.

And then wonders who she's thinking of.

* * *

Elsa leans out the open window. The air smells fresh, and wonderful. The sky twinkles overhead, calling to the city below, and everything is awake. She tugs the hood further over her head, feeling—

_Wicked_.

She takes a deep breath, looking behind into the dark folds of the library—the stacked parchment, the books, the fire in the grate. Then out at Arendelle. At the stars dotting the sky. She spreads her fingers. Ice slicks the roof. Elsa swings back up onto the window seat and out onto the ledge, so her feet are dangling in the air, and before she can think of anything else, she pushes off.

_Forget_.

* * *

Somewhere far away, Niels says, "Don't worry, brother. This shouldn't hurt."

Somewhere far away, Niels laughs.

Somewhere far away, Niels amends, "Much."


	11. Chapter 11

**a/n: **i started school again, and i am literally already done with it ughhhh

ANYWHO

i know some of you were confused about Hans, and i hope this clears things up! or maybe not! but hopefully!

also, congrats to all those playing the i-understood-that-reference game—Hercules, LOTR, Princess Bride, Wicked. can you find them all?! (congrats if you have, you smarties)

SO IN CONCLUSION here is an extra long chapter for you lovelies, and i'm sorry it is so long, but because it is so long, you should all be really cool and drop a review, please and thank you! :)

* * *

The little white daisy sits in a vase on her nightstand. She can see it if she presses her nose against the glass of her French doors, like she's doing now. It looks so very fragile. Like she could snap it between her thumb and forefinger. She asks, "Do you ever think about what would happen if there were no more flowers?" Her breath fogs up the glass.

"No."

"I mean, seriously, can you imagine it? Like, _none._"

"Like, _no_. Are you going to eat your roll?"

"Yes," she hisses protectively, twisting around and snatching the last one from the basket. She shoves a good chunk in her mouth, just to claim it, and says, through full lips, "I could eat bread for breakfast, lunch, and dinner," though it sounds more like, "'couldeatreadbrunchlinner."

Kristoff nods. "Hearty diet. What about chocolate?"

"Ok," Anna amends, swallowing. "Chocolate, too. Bread and chocolate." She settles back against the glass. Her booted foot is leaning sideways and almost touching his; there's the remains of the basket nestled between them, half-laid out on the stone floor of the balcony. Above the railing, and the wall, she can make out the twinkling of starlight, stark compared to the firelight leaking from her room. She's content, and relaxed, except she keeps thinking of her sister and feeling bad, and wishing her sister wasn't so_ difficult_ all the_ time_—"What about you?" she asks, to keep her mind off issues of difficult-ness.

"What about me what?"

"You know," Anna grins. "What's your favorite food?"

"Carrots." Kristoff nods sagely.

"Isn't that _Sven's_ favorite food?"

After a beat: "I don't see why that's relevant to anything—"

She snorts. Whispers, "Unhealthy relationship," through the side of her mouth. Kristoff shakes his head ruefully; his laugh is small.

"He's just," he pauses, glancing sideways at her, then back at the sky, "just—always been there for me."

Anna blinks at him, tracing his profile in the flickering half-light. His mouth is turned at the corners. She shivers, and then is angry at herself for shivering, because it was a nice, end-of-summer-lukewarm out here, like a bath, but she's _freezing_. She has gooseflesh running up and down her arms, under her stockings, across her back. She takes another bite of the roll to hide it. Chew. Chew. _Chew faster, I need to ask him_—she swallows. "What about the trolls?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. They have, too. Sure," he trails off, rubbing his neck uncomfortably. He pokes around in the basket, finding a loose piece of chocolate, and begins to roll it between his thumb and forefinger.

She wants to ask. Instead she reaches into the basket, because if there was one piece of chocolate, there were more pieces of chocolate—their hands brush. He grins guiltily and pulls away. She wonders if he's blushing. She bumps her shoulder into his with a smile. "You gonna eat that?" she asks, of the piece in his hand.

He throws it carelessly into his mouth. "Want it?"

"_Kristopher_."

* * *

_Keep your head down, keep your head down, keep_—

"Miss? Can I help you find something?"

"No, I'm perfectly fine, thank you—"

_They know, they know, they know_—

Elsa tugs her hood again, slung low over her eyes, fingers gripping the folds of her dark purple cloak, frost curling up the seams. She keeps her gaze focused on her feet—sensible, flat black shoes, the plainest she could find. One in front of the other. One in front of the other. Step, step. _Don't step on the cracks_, she thinks rather hysterically. The world is loud and awake around her, men calling to women, women calling to men, children bubbling past on their way home. There are lights in the windows—she can see their reflections upon the ground, but is too afraid to look up, too afraid someone will recognize her—

She lets her feet carry her, and then she spies, beneath her cowl, the heavy, worn wood of the dock, and realizes she's walking parallel to it, across the upper stone wall that corrals the city. She stops. Turns about face. Begins walking back the way she came.

The castle. How far back was the castle? She'd just march through the open gates and up into her room and—

A young boy whistles past, foot stamping on the edge of her cloak. She's forced to a standstill and thrown off-balance; he doesn't stop and neither does she, cartwheeling backwards over the lip of the wall and plummeting down towards the dock below—

She lands in a snowdrift with a muted _thud_. Her heart is pounding, her hood laid low across her shoulders. She hears, "Are you ok?" Footsteps. Then, tentatively, disbelievingly, "Queen Elsa?"

She shuts her eyes. Of _course_. Inhales once, long and low through her nose. Exhales with the same ferocity. When she blinks Prince Albert is standing there, just outside the circle of snow, wearing a dark cloak, almost black; the hood is down. His clothing is much more respectable than it had been, she notes distantly, so she can keep her head. Tunic and trousers. All in order.

"Yes, hello," she replies, as if it was perfectly normal for her to have fallen into a pile of snow at eight o'clock in the evening, when she should have been reading trade reports and listening to her advisors.

"Hi—hello. How are—I mean—here, let me—" he reaches down, extending a hand, hair falling across his forehead in unruly curls. She ignores the help, and with a twist of her wrist feels the snow push her up out of its grasp. She'd almost been comfortable. Prince Albert draws back, and then she watches him slowly realize what _she's_ realizing, which is—

"I thought I told you to keep to your ship," she says coolly.

He blinks at her with _those_ eyes and seems to come to some sort of decision. He straightens his shoulders. He says, "And I thought you were the queen."

She feels her lips thinning. There's not so much direct disrespect in his voice as a steel she hasn't yet heard from him. She's confused. "Excuse me?" she asks, letting the frost creep up her legs and settle around her throat.

He shrugs callously, looking down the broken crook of his nose to examine the tips of his boots. "You heard me. I thought you were the queen. This isn't exactly _queen _behavior."

She clenches her hands beneath the folds of her cloak, feeling ice slithering past her knuckles.

"Maybe I should inform the guards? I'm sure the people would love to hear that their queen has been sneaking—"

She punches him.

Then she looks in awe between her closed fist, little icy pricks fading back into her pale skin, and Prince Albert's face. He wheels back towards her, rubbing his chin. There are little welts there, from the frost, but that's not the most disturbing thing—

_He's grinning_.

"What are you _smiling_ about?" And she hisses, _a__ctually _hisses, because first he comes and then he loses the letter and then he sneaks off his ship, and really, it was all too much, too—

"It's just the first time I've seen you _really_ something," he laughs. "You know, _really_ real—_angry_—" His grin lights up _those_ eyes, making them spark like chips of jade. "You've got a good swing!"

She glares at him in disbelief. Above them the city is awake. To their right, the harbor is asleep. She can hear the muffled shouts of a card game gone sour from the ship behind her, buried deep below deck.

Did he just—

Did he just make her snap on _purpose_?

"Are you trying to distract me from the fact that you've specifically ignored my request?"

"No! No, I just—I'm—look, do you feel better?" he asks finally.

She straightens, lips still thin, and realizes with a start that some twisted, tangled part deep in her chest had loosened the slightest bit.

Just the slightest.

She asks frigidly, "What are you doing away from your ship?"

"Off to the taverns." He holds up his hands, stepping away as she clenches her fist once more. "Really! I—I knew what you said, but it gets awful cramped on that—well, on the ship there, and I just—I—" She's glaring at him, still, and when he notices that he fades off, blinking, as if his words just left him. "I'm sorry."

She feels her anger fading, as it had earlier that day. Bright and sharp and hot and gone. They'd been in the same position, too. She repeats her words of earlier. "I just don't think I can trust you." Isn't quite sure why she says it. Someone races by above them, and she quickly tugs her hood back over her white braid.

"I'm not asking you to trust me," Prince Albert replies. "Just, right now, I'm—just asking you to come to out with me." As his words register he narrows his eyes and says, too quickly, words blurring together, "Notonadate."

She blinks at him. Wants to say, _I would never_, but keeps her mouth shut. He barrels forward.

"Look, I know you're doing that thing I told you about, just—well, not being royal for a bit, right? And that's—just come to a tavern, and you'll see your people, isn't that—isn't that what you wanted?" He pauses for breath. "Maybe?"

Can't she just—

For one night, just—

_Let it go_?

Hadn't she, once?

She snaps, "Fine."

"I mean, it's not going to hurt anyone, you don't need—huh?"

"I said fine."

"You…agreed with—me?"

"This will be the first," she says icily, stepping near enough to him that she can count the freckles dotting his nose, "and only time, Prince Albert." A frosted wind whistles by.

"Just Albert," he says, half-smiling nervously and looking to the side. "Just—just Albert. For now, I mean, not for—not forever."

"Because," Elsa says slowly, fixing her eyes on a point over his shoulder, "because for the rest of the night we aren't…royal."

"Exactly! I mean. Yes. Of course."

Elsa glances over at him. Then she extends her hand cautiously. "Just Elsa, then."

"Well, just Elsa," Albert grins, taking it. "What are we waiting for?"

* * *

Niels is reading from a book, but Hans doesn't know the language. It sounds rough, jagged and raw, as if there are teeth and claws ripping their way up his brother's throat. The crow is sitting placidly on his shoulder.

The chalk begins to spark with a sickly yellow light, inching its way across the markings like a glowworm. When it reaches the inner circle where he stands, there is a sharp, stabbing pain down his heel. He tries to lift one foot and finds he cannot. Despite years of practiced calm, his perfect demeanor cracks a little around the edges.

"Brother?" Hans asks, and his voice wavers. He can't turn to see the king sitting and sipping tea. Can just feel him at his back. Outside the sky is black.

"Patience."

The fire goes out.

* * *

He slides his nail between his two front teeth, trying to get a stray piece of steak, and then he realizes abruptly where he is, and remembers that even if it's Anna sitting next to him it's _Anna_ sitting next to him. He can practically hear Sven screaming at him about table manners. He hastily wipes the offending nail on the knee of his pants, glancing sideways, but she hadn't even noticed—

She was too busy staring up at the sky.

He watches her for a moment. Can't help it. The swooped curve of her nose. The thin press of her lips. He looks back at his nail and grimaces. Before he can indulge in his self-pity, however, Anna is jumping to her feet, nearly disrupting the empty basket, the linen, the crumbs, dusting off her thick skirt—don't think he hadn't notice her shivering, because he had—and turning back towards him. She holds out her hands impatiently. Says, even more so, "Alright, al_right_, enough food, let's go, get up, get up, get up!"

Kristoff blinks at her, startled.

"Kristopher!" she admonishes after a beat, two, in which he just continues to stare, because, really, how did she have this much _energy_, was it really possible for anyone to have this much _energy_—"The sky's waking up," she explains at a low, excited whisper, "so _we_ have to get to my secret spot, like, yesterday—come _on_!"

"Ok! Ok, feisty pants, geez," and the nickname rolls off his tongue. He humors her, reaching for her outstretched hands, but even leaning back and digging the heels of her boots into the stone floor of the balcony doesn't give her enough leverage to lift him. She just tips backwards herself. He laughs, because she looks ridiculous, and then stands. He rights her easily. She weighs about as much as a sack of carrots.

(And eats like a reindeer, how did that even make sense—)

She brushes the sleeve of his blue tunic and grins. "Thanks." She's really, really close. He licks his lips. She coughs. "Ready?"

"What? Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. As I'll ever be." Kristoff takes a step back, trying to figure out where exactly this place could be, wondering at Anna's sanity.

But, then, he was always doing that. So.

"'Kay," she says, turning her back to him and walking purposefully towards the balcony railing. "So, like, don't be daunted, but I'm not gonna lie, it's kinda a climb. Nothing too big, nothing I don't think you can't handle—or can handle? Nothing I don't—never mind. Actually," she pauses, and he's staring at her, because she had just swung one leg over the side and was sitting on it comfortably and _how is—normal, what is_—"should I go behind you? That way I can catch you if you fall—"

"I don't think so," he says quickly, shaking his head. "How about you climb, and I'll follow?" He doesn't say: _so that I can trust-catch _you_ when you inevitably slip_, but, hey, the thought is there.

Anna stares at him. Then she shrugs. "Suit yourself. Don't complain when you _die_."

He rolls his eyes fondly and starts after her.

* * *

The tavern is crowded. As soon as she's stepped inside she wants to leave. The place smells of people, too many people—sweat and alcohol and whatever food was drifting towards them from the back kitchens. A wall of noise. Ice bubbles out around her sensible black slippers.

"Que—Elsa," Albert whispers in her ear, through the heavy fabric of her cloak. "It's ok. Just people."

"Need I remind you," she says through clenched teeth, "that _just people_ wanted to kill me?"

That shuts him up. She does, however, after several deep breaths, manage to thaw the telltale heart around her feet. After an uncomfortable pause he coughs into his fist and says, "This way."

She follows him into the room, daring to lift her head slightly, eyes glinting from the shadows.

It's a large room, lit warmly by the roaring fire in the hearth, and several candles, whose waxy stems were sagging and falling in great waterfalls to the floor. There were tables, and small stools, and a large bar along the back wall, with great barrels of ale and beer situated behind it. The people were talking in groups of two, groups of three, groups of four—all at once, and loudly, and everywhere. As they slip around a man with—she blinks in shock—a _hook_ for a _hand_ she hears him exclaim, "Never thought I'd miss the Snuggly Duckling, but—"

"Here we go," Albert says, motioning to a cramped corner. There's a tall, three-legged table, and two ragged stools to match. She settles gratefully in the farthest one, feeling the comfortable press of the walls at her back. From her vantage, she can watch the entire tavern.

She slips further into her cloak.

"I'll be right—right back, hold a moment—" and he's gone, slipping again past the man with the hook-hand and another with a large, protruding nose. She watches the dark bob of his hood, all the way to the bar. Then she lets her eyes wander.

They were smiling. The people. Did that mean—did that mean they were _happy_? She briefly entertains the notion of pulling off her hood, but she knows what would result from that—bows. Shocked gasps. Unwanted attention.

_Just let it go, come on, one night, let it go_—

Albert—how easily the prince slid from him, she was almost jealous—returns, holding two mugs whose like she had never seen. They were silver, or a tarnished sort of metal similar in vein, and chipped around the rim. White-yellow foam spilled over their top and down their sides. She asks, tentatively, as he sets them on the table and hoists himself up onto the stool next to her, "Are they—_clean_?"

He eyes his own suspiciously. "Truthfully? Probably not. But neither is the beer." He takes a great swig, face scrunching comically. She bites her lip to keep from smiling. He smacks his own together and manages, "Really great stuff, that."

She reaches for her own stein, and, before she can rethink her life choices, takes a tentative sip. Immediately she blanches, and then, almost as fast, she wonders what Anna would say if she could see her now—nothing, probably. Her sister would laugh. The liquid runs like vinegar down her throat and she coughs. "I take it—they don't have—wine?"

"In a _tavern_?" Albert snorts.

She sniffs primly. A silence descends upon the little table that is noticeable even in the great swell of noise around them. Finally she asks, "Now what?"

"Well, I suppose—I—I actually don't know."

She side-eyes him warily. After a beat, in which her eyes return to the festive scene before her, she asks, "In your…professional opinion, do these people look happy?"

"What's not to be happy about? Arendelle's a prosperous kingdom. They've got friends, and beer. Horrible beer, but the lengths men would go to—one time, I remember, Felix snuck into the kitchens to get our brew and—and then—" Albert clams up. His mouth shuts with a _clack_. He takes a tight-lipped sip from his mug.

"What happened to him?" Elsa wipes her finger around the rim of her own, idly circling, over and over. "Felix."

"What—makes you think something happened?" Albert asks.

"You mentioned he was gone. When you had dinner with us."

He tugs on a loose strand of hair.

"When he was twenty, he went out on a ship. And he didn't come back."

"Oh." She feels as if she has been punched in the gut.

"Most of us agree it was pirates who did it," he grins rather deprecatingly, finishing off his beer. She looks at his shoulders—they're no longer stooped. He's leaning confidently against the wall, pressing his stool to rest on two of its three legs, surveying the room with bright, mica-jade-sapphire eyes. "He took a ship through the Spanish Main, the stupid bastard. I don't know what he expected."

Elsa says, "I'm sorry," because it is the proper thing to say, even if she isn't. Even if she's horribly, secretly pleased that there was one less brother to worry about. And then—

"Don't be." Albert laughs. "Felix _hated_ it."

"What?"

"Being royal. Couldn't stand it. Hated the palace, and the people. Told you he started this tradition—_blending in_, he called it."

Elsa watches the man with the hook-hand call for another round of drinks. She says, "My parents died on a ship."

"They don't seem very safe, do they?" Albert muses. "Bring the bad weather and the worse tidings."

"Bring the unwanted princes," she says, to get the taste of parents off her tongue.

"I'm hurt," he says, but he's grinning. He's comfortable, and his movements are fluid. He's no longer reaching for his forearm, and his secret notes there. He's let the guise of royalty drop completely. But then, she thinks ruefully, maybe he's just beginning to feel the pleasanter effects of that beer—

"You, sir!" Albert calls suddenly. "You're calling for drinks?"

Elsa sinks further into her cloak as several eyes turn their way.

"Yeah," the man with the hook-hand says, eyes narrowed. "What's it to ya?"

"I want in on the round," Albert grins back, unabashed. "My treat."

* * *

Hans is melting from the inside out.

His breath is scraping past his raw throat, hot coals tumbling back and forth into his lungs. He cannot catch it, this breath, cannot seem to get enough oxygen—he _needs _more, to feed the ache in his belly, the heat in his heart—his bones crack and snap and pop, and his skin is scorching brown. There's an awful, horrible stench. Burning flesh.

Hans screams.

* * *

"Your last name is _what_?"

"Bjorgman."

"Bjorgman. Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Like, one-hundred-percent?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Huh." Anna considers this, putting her hands in front of her, feeling the rough of the roof shingles scratching against her legs. Kristoff is propped up against one of the chimneys rising from the palace itself; they're seated on her secret place, a small lip just wide enough to perch on, high above the rest of the world, close to the sky and its beautiful, undulating colors—bluegreenpurple—then green again. One swing too far backwards, and she could fall. "Anna Bjorgman. Whatdya think?"

"It's—" his voice cracks. He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's alright, I suppose."

"Yeah. It'd be much better if you had a strong name like—like _Odinson_. Kristoff _Odinson_, how's that?"

"No."

"_I _think it's an improvement."

"No."

"Fine, ok, whatever. Whatever you say." She peers above her at the stars. Now or never, she thinks grimly. "Hey, Kristoff?"

"Yeah—can you watch yourself on that ledge, back there, you're going to fall—"

"I'm not. Kristoff."

"_Yes_?"

"What happened to your parents?" Her voice is soft. "Your real ones. Not that the trolls aren't your real ones, but unless you're hiding something from me I don't think—I mean—I don't think you're a troll," she finishes lamely, looking up quickly at the man across from her and then back at her clasped hands.

She can hear Arendelle, buoyant, and full of life. Above her the sky is singing.

_Oh, you blew it. You blew it, blew it, blew it, how could you just—and then _ask _that, I mean_—_oh my go_—

"I don't like talking about it."

"Kristoff, I'm sorry, I'm really—just me, being too curious, I mean, we all know I'm a little bit curious and I thought, hey, why not ask about his parents—I mean, not parents, I'm not bringing it up—"

"No, that's—it's fine, really—"

"I mean, who likes talking about parents, right? _I need to stop saying it_—"

"Anna!"

She looks up.

"I _want_ you to know."

"Oh. _Oh_. Really?"

"Well, I mean." He takes a deep breath. "Just because you don't like talking about something doesn't mean you should ignore it," he manages on the exhale.

Anna thinks suddenly of Elsa's ice and years of closed doors. She chips at the wood beneath her with the flat of her nail. "Yeah."

Kristoff scratches the side of his nose. She thinks he's going for nonchalant, but his mouth is pressed too thin. "My dad—he'd gone out to harvest—he'd gone out the day before, and this huge storm was rolling in off the mountains. Great, black clouds. The whole—whole nine yards. So my mom says," he fades off here, eyes going fuzzy and strange, fixed on a point over her shoulder. He continues, softly, like he's talking to himself, "_Stay here_."

Anna licks her lips.

"That's the last thing she ever said to me. _Stay here_. Then she went out to the barn and put tack on our last reindeer and. Off she went." He rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. "She was gone for awhile. Long enough that the snow started drifting down, and then the wind made it worse. Then I saw her, coming through the edges of the forest, on her reindeer. My dad was behind."

There's a full thirty seconds pause, in which Anna thinks she will never ask anything ever again, and did she even have a right to ask this, and what was she doing, asking this, like, who did this, who asked this—_where were her social skills_—

"They couldn't get through the storm in time," he sighs at last, shaking his head. "Close. But not close enough." He sniffs loudly, scuffing the palm of his hand on the roof next to him. "I tried to open the door, but I couldn't. The drift was too high." Pause. Breath. Blink. "Sven was in the barn. Lost his parents, too."

Anna doesn't say anything, then, because she'll ruin it if she opens her mouth. Because if she opens her mouth she'll say, _but you still went back to harvesting_ or ask _did you find the bodies_ or _were the trolls better or worse parents_ and none of those things were askable questions, so, no. Instead she clambers forward, hand over foot on the little ledge, and settles herself ungracefully on his lap, so that he has to spit her hair out of his mouth. His arms go around her automatically and she grins, almost smugly, if not for the wicked haunt of the story still hanging over them.

He's warm.

"What are you—"

"_Shh_," she slaps a hand over his mouth. "The sky's awake."

And they both look up.

* * *

Albert is trying to arm wrestle a man name Vladimir who looks like he could crush a man's skull between his thighs, not that she's paying attention to that sort of thing. Next to him, the hook-handed thug—by name of Hook Hand—and the big-nosed thug—by name of Big Nose—are cheering their friend on. Albert isn't her friend, she thinks determinedly, watching the prince bite his lip in frustration, face turning a brilliant shade of crimson, so—

"Go, Albert!" she shouts, lifting her mug—two? Or three? Definitely the third, that—rather shakily and sending a grin from under the shade of her cloak. He starts, surprised at her outburst, and Vladimir takes the opportunity to slam the prince's hand into the table, hard enough that she swears she hears bones breaking. As it is, all the mugs spill to the floor.

"Maybe next time, kid," Hook Hand says with a slap to his back. "'ey, buddy, another round, huh!"

Albert, grimacing and rubbing his hand, slides through the growing crowd towards where she is perched on the stool like a bird. The world is floating around her in a pleasant buzz, everything mumbling together in a host of happy shouts and faces. She likes this place. Loves it. It's a good place. Almost as good as the North Mountain.

"My plan worked," she tells him as he nears.

"Huh?"

"My plan to get you to _lose_."

"I think I stood a very definite chance of victory, too," Albert sniffs, sitting back on his stool and waving at Ulf and Tor, more visitors from distant shores. He's a completely different person, she thinks, and this time she _is_ jealous. Completely different. He's not a prince, and he's smiling, and everyone likes him. So easy. Forget royalty.

Huh.

_I'm jealous_, she thinks to herself slowly, and then cocks a delighted half-grin. She reaches for the mug in front of her and downs the rest. It burns pleasantly down her throat. Albert blinks. "Uh, how—how many is that, then?"

She shrugs, but it feels like her shoulders aren't attached to her body.

"Maybe," she says, concentrating on the words, "maybe like. Two."

"Liar."

"Maybe like four."

"More like five—you took that last refill Hook Hand offered—"

"The bar tender likes you," she says, jerking her chin towards him, a competent looking man with an easy smile and charming eyes.

"Who, Bragi? It's 'cause I talk to him—woah, no more," Albert finishes, pulling his own drink out of her reach.

She almost giggles. But doesn't.

"Does he like Arendelle?"

"Sure, I suppose. Why don't you talk to—"

"No."

"You know," Albert points out, running a hand through his curls. His eyes are nice, she thinks. Something calming about them. "You know, talking to people—"

"No."

He sighs, like he knew that was going to be the answer, and she watches blearily as he opens his mouth to say something more, but a general uproar cuts him off. There are chairs being pressed back, scraping across wood, and more logs being thrown on the fire. Bragi, the bar tender, is shouting, and it takes her a moment to pick out the words over the noise of the crowd, "—going to be music, gather 'round, gather 'round!"

She hears the tuning of instruments—a violin. Two violins. A viola. A flute. There's something unrestrained about the sound, vibrant and clear and beautiful, something she's never heard before, not in the confines of the ballroom. She blinks.

"Elsa?"

"Hm?" She starts back towards Albert.

"I said, do you want to dance?"

"I—"

_Oh, no_.

"I—"

_No. No, no_—

"I think I'm going to be sick," she gulps, and then, throwing one hand over her mouth, bolts from the tavern.

* * *

"And then I broke my arm."

"Are—are you _serious_?"

"As the plague."

"That's gotta be the most—are you _sure_ you're a princess?" He laughs, and she can feel it humming, vibrating through the bones of her chest. She sends an elbow behind her.

"_Kristopher_."

His laughter fades off. She's got his arms wrapped around her; she's nestled in the crook of his legs, and she feels—comfortable, looking at the stars twinkling above her. And then he's silent.

"Hey, what? What's wrong?" She tries to twist around, but his elbows are locked and keeping her in place. If she squirms too much they might fall off the roof. "Does it—I mean, I don't know why it would, because that'd be stupid, but—does it bother you that I am?"

"What, clumsy?"

Elbow, side, grunt. "A princess, ice-head."

He sighs, breath ghosting past her ear. "No. Why would that bother me?"

"Liar."

He doesn't deny it.

"You know," she continues, plucking at a loose thread on his tunic, "since you're the Royal Ice Harvester, you're basically royalty, too."

He snorts at that. "It's not a thing."

"It totally is, we've gone over this." And then, out of the blue, she shivers. One of those violent, horribly awkward shivers, and it basically looks like she's going to have a heart attack or something—"Woah. Weird."

"Hey," he asks, voice going soft, "are you cold?"

"Well, I'm just going to be honest here, and don't take this the wrong way, but you're kind of a fireplace. So, no. 'M _fine_, geez," she laughs it off, trying to pull away. "Just somebody walking over my grave or something—"

"_What_?"

"What? What, yourself, you mean you've never heard—"

"_No_!"

"It's a _saying_, Kristopher, a _saying_—hey, don't push me that way, do you want me to fall off? _It's a plot to get my money, isn't it_."

"Obviously," he replies dryly. He's let her go, and she's scooting back along the edge, turning around. He's fiddling for something in his sash. "No, I just remembered, I got you something—"

"Wait, what? Kristoff, I didn't get you anything—"

"Not required," and he flushes, and she wonders if he's thinking about the sled or something, but really, that had been a gift from Elsa, so he shouldn't feel bad about it at all, or the princess thing, or—or, well, anything, so—"Here."

She looks up, startled. "Huh?"

He's holding an orange crystal between his thumb and forefinger. It's pulsing like a heartbeat, glowing like an ember. She blinks rapidly, oncetwicethrice—

"Kristoff, it's _gorgeous_."

And then she thinks: _wait, what if it's a marriage proposal, no wait, no I'm not—_

"It's, ah, a fire crystal," he says self-consciously, rubbing the back of his neck. "From the trolls."

She lets out a breath she didn't even know she was holding. "A fire crystal?"

"Yeah," Kristoff grins. "It's—they do these trials, and it's really complicated, I don't know how to explain it, but then they get these crystals, and it's like—here, hold out your hands."

She does. He drops it into the cup of her waiting palms, and there's a sudden, comforting warmth shooting up her arms. For the first time in almost two weeks, she feels like she's wearing too many clothes. "Woah."

His grin widens. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"Pretty amazing, is more like it!" She hugs it to her chest, and then—"No one's ever done anything like this for me," she smiles almost in disbelief, looking at the ember-glow between her curved fingers. "I mean, not that I haven't gotten things—I mean, I've gotten too many things, but they've been like—here's a new gown to wear, or, like, here's a new etiquette book—and I don't know about you, but I don't need manners, I've got them in spades, completely—" she pauses for breath, looking through her eyelashes at his incredibly pleased, unsure grin. "Thank you!"

"Anna." Kristoff reaches forward, then thinks better of it, and scoots back, but he doesn't stop talking. There's some sort of internal battle being waged, she thinks, his movements jerky and wild, his hand flying to his collar. He continues, "Anna, I love—"

She feels her eyes widening. Her heart beats faster, and all she can think is _no, not yet, not now, more time, more_—

"—the way you can talk for like, five minutes without taking a breath, geez," he finishes with an awkward sort of laugh, looking to the side. She blinks, feeling the heat of the crystal against her chest, warming her heart.

That was—

A silence, thick and heavy.

So _she_ says—

"Hey, so like, did you have to complete a trial to get this, or what?"

Kristoff smiles smugly, but she thinks there is disappointment around his eyes, and she doesn't know why.

And she does.

"I know people," he says.

Side by side, they gaze up at the sky above.

* * *

Elsa straightens, fingers on the ragged wood of the tavern, and winces.

"I mean, if you didn't want to dance with me, you could've just said so," she hears, and then that self-deprecating laugh, and then, "Sorry. Bad joke. Are—are you alright?"

She takes a few steps to the left, further from the gutter, and leans heavily against the wall behind her. One hand is fisted in the folds of her cloak, the other settled gingerly over her mouth. Her hood is down; she feels exposed, but the square around the tavern is empty. "I've been better," she replies dryly.

Albert comes to a slow, easy stop, and leans on the wall next to her. From inside the tavern she can hear the beginning melody of the first song.

"Do you really hate dancing that much?"

And she says, because she was just sick in a gutter, because she did not want to begin thinking about queens and royalty and propriety—"Shut up."

"You're as cold as ice, just Elsa."

She gives him a glare that could stop a small army, but his grin doesn't fall from his face—he only holds up his hands in a gesture of peace.

"Let me guess," she bites. "Bad joke?"

"How'd you know?"

And they lapse back into silence.

She's rubbing the crook of her arm, looking at the streets. The pointed roof of the tavern sends her face into shadow, and the buildings beyond are beginning to douse their lights, one by one. She wonders how late it is. She should get back. She needed to—

She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes.

"No," Albert says firmly. "No, you can't have guilt until the morning after. That's how this works."

"This wasn't about getting _drunk_," she snaps, shaking her hands before her, crossing her arms tightly. Snow is beginning to fall, soft and slow. "This was about—getting to know my _people_ better—"

"Elsa," Albert says cautiously, and when she glances at him he's tugging at his sleeve, looking like he's approaching a wild animal, "You are. Watching them, talking to them—"

"I _haven't_ talked to—"

"It's not too late to talk to people," he amends quickly. Then he coughs uneasily into his hand and turns forward, so he's facing the street. "Look, the way I see it, this was—I mean, don't you—it's just—"

"You were fine in there," she says, too harshly, and she knows it. Her lapse in judgment was not his fault, _despite_ the fact the he planted the idea. She could not blame anyone but herself.

"I—that's different," he laughs hollowly. "That's—those are people."

"And I'm not?"

"You're Elsa," he says, like that should make sense.

She snorts. It's a very Anna sound. It takes her aback.

"And tonight, it was just—it wasn't just about—I mean, it was about you—letting go. For a bit. A while. A short while."

She starts to the side, as if touched. "What did you say?"

"Letting go—it was about that, I think. I think that was—yeah. Yes, I mean."

And for the first time she wonders if she has misjudged him. Elsa rubs her hands together and focuses for a brief, painful moment, and the snow stops.

No. She had not.

She lets out a long, low sigh, and leans once more against the wall. The sign for the tavern hung to the right, and above—rough hewn from a piece of driftwood, maybe, and painted over recently with bright, fresh colors. _The Prancing Pony_. The horse on it looked entirely unbelievable.

"There are so many of them," Albert says, apropos of nothing. It takes her a beat to realize he's not looking at the sign but _up_, past the lip of the roof above and to the sky full of white pinpricks.

"I love starlight," she says.

"I always thought it was a—cold light."

"No," she shakes her head, tracing their outlines, their paths above, imagining dancing among their cool, blue beauty, remembering them watching her happily as she raised her palace on the North Mountain. "No, they're beautiful."

"Felix used to say it was the light of wishes."

"Hm," she hums.

"Would you dance up there, then?"

"What?"

"Would you dance up there?" he asks, smiling. "I can see you. You'd fit."

"Are you calling me a flaming ball of gas?"

"No," he shakes his head, and before she can really register what he's doing his hand is near her face, hovering by her cheek, holding a loose strand of her hair. She sucks in a breath. Goes stock-still. "Beautiful." Pause. "Distant."

"You're drunk," she whispers.

His grin is sharp. "Maybe. Probably." He lets go, and she thinks he is going to take a hasty step back, but instead he takes a quick step forward, so close she can make out the flecks of dark green, of cerulean, in his eyes, and were they anything like those _other_ eyes, in reality—

"What are you doing?" she demands sharply.

With a swift tug he pulls her hood back over her head just as a couple strolls past, arm in arm, the woman proclaiming, loudly, "Just _one_ dance, darling—" before they head inside.

"Close one," Albert whispers, grin slipping as he tumbles backwards.

Elsa's stomach is rolling again.

_Letting go, huh?_

There's another song beginning; a fast jig.

She tentatively reaches, her fingers cresting the fabric of her cloak and looking pale in the moonlight. She licks her lips. Pauses. Breathes. And—

"Dance with me?"

* * *

Hans wakes up in pieces.

He's lying on the ground, his neck twisted at an awkward angle, his legs curled behind him. There are voices, above, and he takes a moment to place them, to place himself—

"—did it take?"

"—won't know until he wakes—"

"—by the screaming, I imagine—"

His insides feel like the insides of one of the cook's tarts, mashed to a pulp; his head feels worse. There's a roaring behind his eyelids. His breath is coming in short, rapid gasps, and he can't seem to stop them.

He opens his eyes.

Niels is kneeling over him, regarding him shrewdly, clinically. The crow is on his shoulder. Hans wants to open his mouth, but can't seem to get his jaw to work. His brother picks up his limp arm, leans closer to examine his pupils. The crow remains, talons firmly planted in the cloth of his tunic, and as it nears Hans can finally make out what's wrong with its eyes—

Milky, opaque, white.

Dead.

"How do you feel?" Niels asks.

"Like hell," Hans replies. It takes a moment for his voice to work, and when it does, he almost doesn't recognize it.

"Good." Niels callously helps him to his feet. Hans sways. The king is standing by the window, surveying the dark night outside.

"What did you do to me?" Hans croaks.

"Made you stronger," the king replies.

Hans is about to retort, but there is something inching along his veins, hot and horrible like molten lead. He feels as if he is burning, burning, _burning_—

With slow, deliberate precision, he looks down at his right hand, and pulls off his glove, one finger at a time. The white fabric flutters to the floor, amid the smudged chalk markings.

—and the burn creeps to the tips of his fingers, engulfs his hand, and as he watches his skin glows, his skin cracks—

His skin bursts into flames.

They skip between his outstretched fingers, slip across his knuckles, dance and pulsate mesmerizingly in the half-light of Niels' room.

"Hans," the king begins, turning to look at him over his shoulder, "what melts ice?"

Hans' grin is peeling off his face like yellowed wallpaper. "Why, your highness," and the title is on purpose, the slight jab, the small slip, and the flame doesn't burn him as he watches it licking the air from his open palm—

"Fire, of course."

* * *

Somewhere, a princess and an ice harvester sit on the roof of a palace, gazing at the sky.

Somewhere, a queen dances, as free as the stars and twice as far away.

And somewhere, cutting a swath through the gleaming black water, a ship pulls silently into harbor.


End file.
